Welcome to the Bright Lights
by paundromat
Summary: All it took for their relationship to grow into something more was five months, a lot of angst, and one trip to New York City for the 2011 Glee Club National Championships. Klaine. Now complete!
1. Roads

**WELCOME TO THE BRIGHT LIGHTS—Ch. 1: Roads**

**By: paundromat**

**READ ME****: The idea for this multi-chapter story came to me when I was aboard a plane...the plane became a bus, and the bus became Dalton's. After I finished writing the very first rough draft, I kind of let it sit, abandoned, in one of the lonely, empty folders on my Google Docs account. Then my friend ****BeRightThere****, a fellow Klaine worshipper, invited me to try my hand at rewriting bits and chunks of this...plus, she helped edit. Which was absolutely amazing.**

** This fic is written in Blaine's point of view, with Kurt's journal entries interspersed throughout.**

** Who's seen the Entertainment Weekly cover with Kurt and Blaine on it? So freshly dapper. What did you guys think? Drop a comment if you feel like it.**

**And ****snuggly ****wuggly****. ****Less ****than ****three****, ****Klaine****. ****Less ****than ****three****.**

**P****.****S****. ****EPIC ****UKELELE ****PICTURE ****IS ****EPIC****.**

**P.P.S. Preview for the Warbler rendition of "Bills, Bills, Bills"? Amazing cover of an amazing song. By Destiny's Child. Therefore, these Warblers are freaking AMAZING through the transitive property.**

**DISCLAIMER****: ****I ****do ****not ****own ****Glee****. ****Ryan ****Murphy ****does****. ****Coincidentally****, ****I ****went ****to ****junior ****high ****with ****a ****dude ****named ****Ryan ****Murphy****. ****It ****wasn****'****t ****the ****same ****Ryan ****Murphy****, ****though****. ****Which ****is ****mildly ****depressing****.**

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* * *

**

Kurt Hummel was, in all technicality, far too fabulous for the Dalton Academy Warblers.

Which was exactly why I found myself gasping in a totally _not_ Blaine way and sputtering out, "What the hell are you wearing?"

To which the effeminate countertenor replied smoothly, "On the contrary, what are _you_ wearing?" Kurt's eyes had skimmed over my outfit distastefully, lingering especially on my thick white tube socks. "That's strangely disappointing," he added as sort of an afterthought.

I was shocked at Kurt's choice of dress. The Warblers had placed first at Regionals (beating out the New Directions as well as Vocal Adrenaline with the help of Kurt) and were heading to New York City for the 2011 Show Choir National Championships, and we were all going by private bus. It was going to take a collective total of ten hours to get there. Of course, we were taking a pit stop in the middle of the entire ordeal to refuel and get some rest at a business hotel, but even that didn't explain why Kurt was wearing...

...well, _that_.

Don't get me wrong. I'm an avid patronizer of fashion and the arts—just as much as Kurt is. But for long, excruciating bus rides? Not so much. And apparently the rest of the Warblers shared in my sentiments. Even the flamboyantly gay ones. All of the Warblers, with the exception of one Kurt Hummel, had boarded the rented shuttle in Dalton-issued sweatpants and sweaters, complete with thick wool socks and heinous tennis shoes. Granted, my sweatpants were slightly more attractive than everyone else's—fitted and not overly tight—but I was still aware of the fact that I was making bird crap look attractive, regardless of my obvious Dalton pride.

I looked like I didn't care what the hell I looked like.

And in retrospect, I really didn't care at all. I hated traveling uncomfortably. I hated bus seats, even the expensive, padded ones. I disliked the chilled turkey-tomato sandwiches that Mr. Goolsby, our clueless glee club director, filled the Styrofoam coolers in the bus trunk with. And I hated staring at the plain Ohio spring scenery for hours on end.

"Are you ready for this?" asked Kurt as I slid into the aisle seat next to him. He had a brown patent leather messenger bag sitting on his lap primly, and his legs were crossed.

I gave him another once-over.

Ah, Kurt.

Kurt Hummel.

His outfit was undeniably ridiculous. I suppose he was trying to take advantage of one of the only times he wasn't forced to wear the signature navy-and-red Dalton Academy tie and blazer.

Kurt had volumized his thick brown hair to the extreme—it stuck up about four inches from his scalp. He was wearing an iguana-green turtleneck sweater, and his belted orange peacoat was hanging on the peg by the bus window. And as if to make matters worse, he had donned tight, white, and totally unnecessarily bleached skinny jeans that must have been a pain to travel with. What if they got stained? Or what if, God forbid, his underwear showed through?

_Hey__, __Hummel__, __boxers __or __briefs__?_ thought hormonally-charged Blaine.

_Shut __the __hell __up__,_ replied Mentor-Blaine flatly.

Ignoring my wild thoughts, I grinned up at Kurt, patting his knee with my hand, albeit awkwardly. "Ready as I'll ever be. This'll be the most tedious ten hours of my life," I told him, even though I knew the part about the ride being tedious was a complete lie.

He nodded eagerly, a smug smile appearing on his face. "You're underestimating my skills of entertainment, Anderson," he said, the smooth palm of his hand dancing across my own.

* * *

After a foot-stomping and hand-clapping fifteen-minute Warbler rendition of "The Wheels on the Bus" in four-part harmony, Kurt began to nod off, his head resting against my shoulder. His hair poked against my chin, and I was astonished at just how soft it was–it didn't seem like he had put that much styling product at _all_. I took a moment to thank the stars that I had opted out of gelling my hair. My own dark curly hair took tons of gel to tame–I was certain that it had the potential to gouge eyes out.

Creepy as it may sound, it was fun to watch Kurt as he slept. When awake, Kurt only wore several expressions on his face, and none of them looked remotely calm at all. He had a bitch face, and an angry face, and a sassy face, and a tormented face, and a performance face...

But when he was asleep, Kurt's features relaxed and he looked absolutely at peace. In retrospect, it would have been amazing to see Kurt awake with such a soft expression on his face, mostly because I was sure that his blue-green-gray eyes would complement the whole angelic look he had going on.

_Way __to __sound __like __a __pedophile__, __Blaine__. _

There was a sound of shuffling a few feet away from me, and a low grunt as someone stood up halfway in their chair.

"Hey, Blaine," whispered David from the seat right across from my own. He was seated in the window seat, and I tried not to crack up as he leaned over Wes' sleeping form (he was drooling copiously on his Dalton Academy hoodie, and he immediately began mumbling something about corn bread when David moved him out of the way). David shook the sheaf of paper he had in his hands and pointed to one of the lines. "Hey, look...uh, Jeff signed up to room with Kurt before you did. Should I–?"

I shot a look back at the peacefully sleeping Kurt, and then another at Wes, who was still dozing soundly even with David leaning over him. The former shifted noticeably in his sleep, and a furrow appeared briefly in his porcelain-perfect forehead before smoothing out.

I brought my eyes to David's, and he nodded sympathetically.

"Jeff who?" I questioned, even though I thought I already knew the answer.

"Jeff Simon."

Oh. Jeff Simon. The bottle-blond one who had asked Kurt to the Valentine's Formal before I even got the courage to. The one who sat in the hallways in between classes, trying to look deep and artsy by playing folksy songs on a twelve-string guitar. The one who didn't get the solo for Sectionals _or_ for Regionals. _That_ Jeff.

"You say yes and this conversation never happened, man, even to Wes," David added with a mischievous grin and a calculated wiggling of his dark eyebrows. He must have picked up on my oh-so-fabulously concealed resentment for any of Kurt's many suitors.

"Thanks, David," I replied with a content sigh, sinking back into my seat in relief. Kurt's head snuggled up a little bit closer to my shoulder, almost on instinct.

"No problem, man." I could already perceive David hurriedly taking a thick black Sharpie to the roommate list. I hoped no one could hear the frantic squeaking of the pen as it dragged across the paper. Particularly Jeff. Of the Simon variety.

_You __need __to __calm __down__, __Blaine__._

I tried to slow down my inhalations by matching them up with those of the boy who was leaning against my broad, hideously-dressed shoulder.

Five minutes and I had already fallen asleep to the rhythm of Kurt's breathing.

* * *

_April__ 15, 2011. __Five__-__thirty __P__.__M__. __Somewhere __near __Mansfield__, __Ohio__._

_Dear Journal__—_

_I __can__'__t __believe __the __Warblers __actually __made __it __to __Nationals__. __But __we__'__re __actually __here__. __On __the __bus__, __I __mean__. __The __bus __to __New __York City__, __New __York__, __where __Nationals __is __going __to __be __happening __in __less __than __a __week__. _

_Blaine __thinks __that __I__'__m __sleeping__, __probably__. __He__'__s __sleeping __on __my __shoulder __right __now__...__and __even __though __this __journal __is __on __the __memory __card __of __a __password__-__protected __iPhone__, __I__'__m __still __all __paranoid __about __someone __coming __to __find __it__. _

_Mostly __because __of __those __embarrassing __past __entries __about __the __aforementioned __Blaine __Anderson__. __I __know __that __I__'__ve __declared __my __oh__-__so__-__immortal __love __for __Mr__. __Anderson __many __times__, __but__...__nothing__'__s __happened__. __Nothing__. __Absolutely __nothing __at __all__. __I __swear __to __God__, __Wes __is __getting __more __romantic __gestures __from _David _than __I__'m__ getting__from __Blaine__. And Wes and David are straight and in steady relationships with women. __I __guess __I__'__ll __always __just __be Blaine's__little __battered __homosexual __pet __project__. _

_But __the __funny __thing __is __that __I __don__'__t __really __seem __to __care __anymore__. __I __think __I __actually __might __be __getting __over __Blaine__. __Is __that __weird__?_

_No__. __Honorary __girl __empowerment__. __It __feels __right__._

—_Kurt_

_

* * *

_

By the time I woke up due to the fiery rage of the spitballs targeted at me by Thad, Nick, and David, Kurt was already awake and lucid. His hair had flattened slightly in slumber and he was peering at his reflection in the window, running his the fingers of his left hand through the strands worriedly. His right hand clutched his iPhone to his side, and I smiled at that. Typical Kurt.

Yawning and stretching my arms out as far as the limited space allowed me, I turned to him and asked, "What time is it?"

Kurt ceased in his frenzied hair-fixing efforts and dutifully checked his Rolex. "Nine-thirty P.M., to be exact." He furrowed his brow in concentration as he did the mental math before finishing with a rushed, "We've been on the road for four hours."

"Lovely," I said with an easy smile. I ran my fingers through my hair and laughed along with Kurt when I came across a huge knotted tangle in it.

Fifteen minutes later, Wes stepped out from his seat near the back of the bus and shuffled over to its front tiredly, announcing that we would be stopping at a hotel for the night and that if we would be so kind as to pull out all of our belongings from underneath the seats in front of us. As the Warblers all went crazy looking for their possessions, Wes frowned and pulled out the roommate list from his satchel (despite David's teasing that it was actually a legitimately "even-gayer-than-Blaine" man purse). Also from the supposed satchel came Wes' reading glasses and a highlighter that was striped Dalton colors with red and navy duct tape.

Wes cleared his throat. "Okay, Warblers, it'll be two to a room. You all selected your roommates beforehand on a first-come, first-serve basis, so don't come crying to me if you get someone you don't particularly get along with. You all brought this upon yourselves."

Kurt rolled his eyes and nudged me in the shoulder with his elbow. "I thought you said that Wes wasn't a _total_ stick-in-the-ass, Blaine."

I shrugged, saying, "I lied?"

I shook my head as Kurt shot a sharp, serious look at me. "No, no, only kidding. He's just fulfilling his duties as Head Warbler, that's all," I told him, and Kurt chuckled to himself, pacified by that answer.

I ducked down and dug my own bag from underneath the seat in front of me. It was a simple, charcoal gray Tumi carry-on, nothing too fancy or over-the-top. We were all instructed to pack an overnight bag for the pit stop at the Hyatt as well as a full-sized luggage for the New York stay, so I had decided to go all stereotypically fashion-savvy and match my baggage.

I was pretty impressed with myself.

_Think __Kurt__'__s __impressed__?_

"...anyway, I repeat: do _not_ come to me with roommate drama. Unless if they try to rape you or something. That would be bad," continued Wes, ignoring one of the loud off-tangent comments that came from the middle of the bus and accused him of sounding too much like an airplane flight attendant.

There was a general murmur of approval amongst all of the Warblers.

"David will be right up here with the room keys; all of the Warblers will be staying on the ninth floor. And I don't want any funny business," said Mr. Goolsby gruffly from his seat by the bus driver.

Wes waited for Mr. Goolsby and the Warblers to quiet down and then directed our attentions back to him. "So here we go, Warblers: in room 900, Thad Meyers and Randy Lawless..."

Kurt had his messenger bag slung over his left shoulder and an ivory canvas portmanteau strapped over his right as he hummed quietly to himself with a look of utter boredom on his face. I was considering doing the same when Wes finally called out, "Blaine Anderson and Kurt Hummel, you'll be in room 908..."

We exchanged a quick smile, ignoring the wolf whistles and the "get some!"s sent our way by the rest of Warblers, who all seemed to be under the impression that Kurt and I were _dating_.

Crazy shit, right? Totally bogus.

When the bus came to a complete stop, Kurt and I were the first to leave. As we walked together down the aisle, I caught the eye of Nick, who mouthed "Stay safe!" with a wink and a thumbs up. I frowned disdainfully at him, and his smirk immediately disappeared.

"Blaine?" asked Kurt, fixing his devolumized bangs with his fingers.

"What?"

"Stop frowning disdainfully at Nick."

"Oh."

* * *

By the time I slid the plastic card key into the slot and opened the door of room 908, Kurt was beginning to yawn and his posture was beginning to slump—he looked extraordinarily exhausted.

"You alright there, Kurt?" I called as he strode into the room and proceeded to collapse on the twin bed closest to the window.

"Tired," he mumbled, his voice muffled by the white linen pillow that was perched atop the bed.

I stepped out of my Nike tennis shoes and slipped off my Dalton Academy sweatshirt, nodding in agreement. "I must admit that I share in your sentiments...it's really been a long day, hasn't it?" Turning away from him, I continued to undress (albeit ungracefully), simultaneously reaching into my bag and grabbing a pair of pajamas. "You want some coffee or tea? I mean, I know it's late, and all, but..." I trailed off, stepping into fleece pajama pants, knowing full well that Kurt Hummel never turned down an invitation to free coffee.

Kurt sat up, his hair looking messy, frazzled, and absolutely adorable. "Coffee? Sure." He hopped off the bed and grabbed his portmanteau from the carpet. "I'll go take a shower real quick, though."

With that, he turned the corner and retreated into the hotel bathroom with his bag, so I guessed that I had another half hour to brew some of the free coffee that was offered by the hotel.

"Damn," I muttered as I realized I had forgotten to fill up the coffee pot with water from the bathroom sink. It hadn't even been two minutes yet. Kurt probably wasn't even finished fixing up all of his various skin care products and whatnot.

"Kurt, can I come in?" I asked, knocking on the bathroom door tentatively. It was partially open, but I didn't want to walk in on one potentially naked Kurt Hummel.

Did not need that mental picture.

_Calm __your __pants__, __Blaine__._

"Yeah, sure," answered Kurt. There was a slight clanging noise emanating from the bathroom–Kurt's obnoxious array of toiletries–but I opened the door anyway.

I tried very hard not to stare at Kurt, who had a clean towel wrapped around his slender waist and was standing, arms crossed, by the sink, watching me as I filled up the pot. The sound of water from the faucet filled the otherwise completely silent room.

The first time I had seen Kurt shirtless, I nearly died of shock. I had not expected Kurt to be muscular at all, but there he was: long and lean and strong, at Dalton, with me, _half__-__dressed_. He definitely had been a well-trained, agile McKinley High Cheerio, which explained part of it...and the other part of it was just _him_. Of course Kurt took care of himself. It had been a mistake to assume otherwise.

Because I had incorrectly assumed that Kurt did not possess any sort of abdominal definition whatsoever.

But he did. It wasn't all grossly ripped and protruding like those body builders from the '80s (oh _dear __God _no), but it was there and it was nice to look at even though I knew I shouldn't and–

I was staring.

Sweating profusely, I took the coffee pot from the sink and stepped out of the bathroom shakily, my entire body feeling like it was on fire. I tried to maintain my trademark Blaine expression, and I could have sworn I saw Kurt smirking cheekily at me, hip set to the side, could almost perceive a slight darkening in the gray of his eyes as he twisted the sink faucet and halted the water's flow...

But of course not. He definitely hadn't been doing that on purpose. I shook my head to clear it as I lined the translucent coffee filter up with the brewer, opened the packet with the black-brown grounds in it, and pressed the glowing red start button.

* * *

**A****/****N****: ****What****'****d ****you ****think****? ****Too ****little****? ****Too ****much****? ****Terrible****? ****Smelly****? ****Drop ****me ****a ****line ****via ****review****—****I****'****d ****love ****you ****forever ****if ****you ****did ****that****—****and ****don****'****t ****forget ****to ****subscribe****, ****add ****to ****story ****alerts****, ****favorite****, ****etc****. ****Next ****chapter****, ****expect ****more ****hotel ****room ****fun****, ****the ****remainder ****of ****the ****bus ****ride****, ****and ****the ****arrival ****in ****New ****York****.**


	2. Brand New

**READ ME: Your reviews have all been so lovely! I'm completely new to writing in the Glee fanfiction world and sort of pretty new to writing fanfiction in general, so all of your wonderful comments made me feel very welcome. :) **

** Keep the reviews coming! Reviews are, in the words of Kurt Hummel, "like crack to me." **

** Does anyone have any more Glee gossip? I cannot wait for this freaking hiatus to be over, so Klaine gossip is especially appreciated. Oi, Ryan Murphy, we can has canon!Klaine nao plz? **

**Also, thanks to ****BeRightThere**** for helping with the brainstorming of this fic.**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Glee, etc. **

**WELCOME TO THE BRIGHT LIGHTS: CH. 2 "BRAND NEW"**

**By: paundromat**

When Kurt finally came out of the bathroom, he was wrapped in one of those stark white hotel robes and his damp hair was slightly matted against his pale forehead. With his bangs in his face, he looked like he was five again. I guess that's why he insisted on gelling them up and out of his face all the time. Didn't want to get mistaken as, for example, a very tall, very attractive magical elf.

_An elf? What the hell, Blaine?_

"Blaine?" he asked, watching as I dutifully poured the steaming coffee into two mugs. He began to twirl a chunk of his wet brown hair in between his fingers deftly, continuing with, "You want to clean up in the bathroom or anything? I mean, you don't have to. But I dislike people who smell bad." Kurt leaned over a little bit towards me, and his warm breath skimmed over my skin as he sniffed at me. I flinched back a little bit on instinct, but Kurt didn't seem to notice. The sides of his lips turned up in a slight smile.

"You smell like the inside of a car," he accused teasingly, poking at my stomach with his finger. "And since I don't deem that scent particularly pleasant, you need to take a bath."

I gave a huge, exaggerated sigh, turning the Kurt and pouting. "I just changed into my pajamas, though," I replied, gesturing pointedly towards my fleece pants. Kurt rolled his eyes offhandedly, swatting at my shoulder. "Take a bath, Blaine," he commanded.

For a moment, I considered mutiny.

Finally, I threw my hands up in resignation and acquiescence. "Fine, fine, whatever the grand and endearing spy Kurt Hummel wants. Apparently I smell too vehicular for him. How shall I ever go on?" I proclaimed, waxing melodramatic and raising my thick, dark eyebrows up as high as they could go.

Kurt stuck his pink tongue out at me and grabbed his respective mug of coffee, taking a dignified sip before sitting down at the desk, cross-legged and solemn. His eyes followed me in between brief swallows of coffee as I shuffled to the other side of the room to the bathroom rather lamely. When inside, I undressed yet again, as per Kurt's instructions.

Kurt had an uncanny habit of acquiring whatever he wanted in the world: the newest spring fashions, a wonderfully whole and complete family, freedom from his oppressors...

...freedom from Karofsky?

Karofsky was a topic that had escaped most of our conversations at Dalton Academy. Kurt didn't like to think about it, so I didn't like to remind him about it. Whenever Wes or David brought up Dave Karofsky, Kurt's sanguine face would fall noticeably until it seemed haunted and slushied by the bullies of his old public high school again.

It was my responsibility to keep him out of the McKinley High blues. I hated seeing Kurt depressed. It was total a waste of his spirit and creativity.

So by the time that Kurt's own tragic sob story got leaked throughout the Warblers and later throughout all of the Dalton Academy, I began to elbow people _very_ roughly in the ribs or possibly the spleen in order to get them to shut up about Karofsky and the rest of Kurt's old tormentors. As you might expect, the general anti-Karofsky sentiment soon spread throughout campus like wildfire, and that was the end of that chapter in Kurt's Daltonian life.

And once people stopped treating Kurt like some sort of delicate but flamboyant tortured plebeian-type kid, his life at school got much better.

For one thing, he started to make new friends outside of Wes, David, and myself. Kurt started to open up more about his life, and he poured every drop of his creativity into the classroom and into his own single-bedroom dorm room, which was by now laden with steel figurines and cultured, fancy wall art. There had been a slight incident wherein Kurt took the issue of not being allowed to paint over the beige walls of his room straight to the Dean. Kurt had lost that fight, but he soon dismissed it as trite and unnecessary. He ended up mumbling some sort of meaningful rhetoric about how true designers could create beautiful space without over-manipulation.

On the other, his unforgettable face and pleasantly catty personality began attracting some of the other gay guys at Dalton (read: Jeff Simon), which left me feeling undeniably uncomfortable. But no one was quite so uncomfortable as Kurt, who wasn't exactly used to all of the positive attention. Hell, I don't think he was even adjusted to the idea of males even coming within three feet of him. I mean, other than to push him into lockers on the way to his AP French class back at McKinley, or something.

Or, you know. Kiss him in the boys' locker room against his will.

_Looking at _you_, Karofsky_.

The culture shock must have been stark and definitive. Public school equals torment. Private school equals safe haven. And this mentality wasn't exactly fair, but it was the way life was playing out for Kurt.

I stopped my thoughts in their tracks, directing my attention to the ordeal at hand. I ran the bathwater, setting it to the highest heat setting, and ignoring the burning sensation I felt when the fiery droplets scorched at my skin.

In the shower, the bar of soap somehow transformed into a rather unconvincingly shaped, cucumber-melon-fragranced microphone.

Showers were funny things, really. Some people turned the heat way down low in order to...cool off. But for me? Showers were the perfect way to end the day by singing whatever I wanted loudly and obnoxiously.

"_Show me your peacock-cock-cock, your peacock-cock-cock..."_ I sang loudly into the green bar of soap, gearing up for my ten-minute in-the-shower Katy Perry medley.

There was a clattering noise coming from outside of the bathroom, followed by a largely uncalled-for snort. Kurt was chortling to himself, obviously entertained.

"_Come on, baby, let me see what you're hidin' underneath..."_

The giggles that were coming from the bedroom stopped immediately.

Kurt's voice trailed in through the crack in between the door and the frame.

"Blaine Anderson, if I may? Not that I'm recording this with my phone or anything, but if Thad ever hears of this incident you're definitely not representing the Warblers during Nationals," he said, the lilt of a joke coming through in his voice very clearly. I could almost picture the little smirk that was blooming on his face.

I ceased in my Katy Perry peacocking efforts.

And Kurt's laughter resumed.

* * *

_April 15, 2011. Ten-thirty P.M., The Hyatt._

_Dear Journal—_

_ Blaine's been singing Katy Perry all adorably in the shower instead of actually, you know, showering. It's endearing and, for lack of a better word, Blaine-y. He also sort of made me coffee, even though it's late in the evening. And even though the coffee is weak and watery, I appreciate the gesture. It's the thought that counts._

_ Argh, stop it, Kurt! Stop thinking about Blaine._

_ Lady GaGa. Lady GaGa and Marc Jacobs and New Directions._

_ And Jake Gyllenhaal._

_ ..._

_ Ah, much better._

_ Hot damn, he's out of the shower. Need to put iPhone back in pocket._

—_Kurt_

_

* * *

_

"Happy?" I asked, doing a 360-degree spin for Kurt to show of my newly-showered self.

Kurt nodded in approval after taking in another whiff of me. "Better," he replied shortly, getting up to put his empty coffee cup on the table with the brewer on it. "Now you smell like aftershave and cucumber melon soap."

I pointed at my already rapidly-curling hair sheepishly. "And now you get to watch this air dry. It's going to take _forever_."

Kurt shook his head quickly. "We're going to sleep anyway, Blaine." He padded on in his little light blue plush slippers towards the bed he had claimed earlier, and flopped down on it as if to prove a point. He pulled the linen sheets over his body and I watched, entranced as the fabric fluttered a bit in the air before settling down to encase his petite frame.

I scratched my neck sheepishly. "This is true. Point taken."

I stood up, put my still-full, abandoned coffee mug on the table, and sat down at the edge of the twin bed right across from Kurt's.

"So, Kurt," I began conversationally while I busied myself with turning over the bedsheets and sliding underneath without rumpling up the comforter too much. "Excited to see New York for the first time?"

Kurt hummed a little bit and then replied, "Mmm, I'm even more excited to just get out of Ohio in general. Two years ago, it seemed like I'd never even make it out of Lima."

I smiled at that. "Good to know you at least made it out to Westerville."

"Ha _ha_, very funny, Blaine."

"Hey now, the Warblers are of _very_ high society."

Kurt paused for a moment before responding with a playful, "Never stopped David from spitballing the shit out of you."

There was a ruffling sound as Kurt shifted in his position so that he could face me rather than the ceiling. I reciprocated, turning towards him. He had the sheets pulled up tight against himself. Kurt looked _kind of_ adorable.

Okay, maybe a lot adorable.

"Who said that members of high society were ever too good for spitballing?"

"I think that I'd direct all of that high society money to different things. Like various charities, for example."

"Well, that's very noble of you, Kurt Hummel."

There was silence for a bit.

And then, "_Oh-oh-oh-oh-ohhhhh oh-oh-oh-ohhh...oh-oh-oh...Caught in a bad romance..."_

I lifted my torso up from the bed slightly, wondering where exactly the loud Lady GaGa music was coming from.

Oh. Kurt's phone. He had set his ringtone to "Bad Romance". Of course he did.

_Oh, the irony!_

Kurt's hand was immediately to the bedside table, blindly feeling the space for his phone, which was buzzing quite rudely and obnoxiously. The pulsing rhythms of the song filled up the small hotel room, and I couldn't help but laugh at how awkward the entire situation felt, given the circumstances.

He finally picked up the phone right after GaGa's first set of "ra-ra-ah-ah-ah"s, and his face fell instantly after he held the speaker to the side of his face.

"What, Rachel?" Kurt snapped, looking visibly annoyed as he heaved a great sigh. Most of the New Directions had taken the loss at Regionals with grace and poise. But the little five-foot dynamo that was one Rachel Berry seemed to be living her life vicariously through Kurt's success as a Dalton Warbler; therefore, she was practically stalking him on his "Road to Nationals".

When the first Rachel Berry phone call had come just a week ago, I had dismissed the entire notion lightheartedly, pointing out that Kurt had finally won over his very first rabid fangirl.

Kurt merely shrugged, rolled his eyes, and proceeded to have a seemingly pleasant conversation with Rachel.

Only those pleasant conversations somehow managed to morph into intense diva-offs mainly fueled by Rachel's uncontrollable envy.

You know how she had magically improved in personality around time for Sectionals?

Those improvements? Gone. Zip, zilch, zero, nothing.

Vegan, kosher goose eggs.

"Yes, we're on the layover right now. The Hyatt. No, I have no idea where the hell we are—probably somewhere in Pennsylvania," Kurt continued, twiddling the strings of his Gucci cell phone strap in between his fingers.

Rachel was speaking so loudly and so excitedly that I could actually catch snippets of whatever she was talking about with Kurt.

"Are you rooming with Blaine?" she asked, or rather, _demanded_.

Kurt huffed out another sigh. "_Yes_, Rach. I am rooming with Blaine Anderson."

There was a sound of squealing from the phone and Kurt shuddered, holding it a few inches away from his ear before returning it to its original position once the shrill, girlish screams stopped.

When Rachel's voice went a little bit softer, I had to strain a little bit to pick up what she was saying. And even then I couldn't exactly hear everything.

"Kurt, I know (_something_) Blaine, but (_damn it, Rachel, talk louder_) because (_something_) Blaine (_silence_) Kurt, you need to (_what's she saying?_) oh, and (_boo._) but I digress. Mercedes is here," Rachel was continuing blithely.

Kurt turned his head to me and gave me a look that said, "Shoot me now, please."

I couldn't help but feel just a little bit uncomfortable. Rachel was obviously talking about me on that stupid phone of hers.

Kurt brightened up considerably once Mercedes got on the line, and a smile appeared on his previously morbidly annoyed face. "Hi, 'Cedes! Yes, he's here. Oh, I'll put you on speaker, do you mind?" He took the phone away from his face and pressed something on its screen. Immediately, the warm tones of Mercedes' voice were amplified.

"Hey, Blaine," greeted Mercedes. I nodded and smiled, and then realized that Mercedes couldn't actually see me. Feeling like an idiot, I added an amending, "Hey, Mercedes. How's the boyfriend?"

Silence on the other line, and then a dreamy, "Anthony's been really good to me." And then, as if catching herself from getting too mushy, "Oh, and Kurt, your dad wanted me to decipher some mail that you got from Neiman. Essentially, Cathy says they found those boots you were looking for in your size, so..."

Kurt's posture perked up instantly. "I have three-hundred-and-fifty dollars hidden underneath the leg of the gray suede chaise in my room, Mercedes," he said brightly. "Go for it."

"Sure, boo. And so...that's pretty much all I have to say. I hope Rachel hasn't been getting too overzealous about the entire stalk-the-Warblers thing she's got going on. Actually, never mind. She's probably gone a little bit too overboard already. So I'm sorry about that," Mercedes trailed off a little bit, unable to find anything else to say.

Kurt propped his chin up with his palm. "Irrelevant. Oh, and Rachel can have all the fun she wants with this. I assure you that the Warblers are not going to throw Nationals just to heal her wounded ego."

Mercedes snorted loudly and shouted in the other direction (presumably Rachel's), "Rachel, you hear that? They aren't throwing Nationals for you, hell no."

Rachel seemed to be passing by the phone just in time to mutter a, "I never said they would. For the record, I do not care about Nationals. Mainly because I am not going."

"Sure you don't," Mercedes said emphatically.

"I assure you, Mercedes, that my two gay dads raised me with enough tact and poise in accordance to our Jewish family's traditio–"

Kurt rolled his eyes and interrupted Rachel with a, "Hey, Merce, it's late over here and we have an early start tomorrow on the bus. Right, Blaine?"

"Sure, Kurt. Bye, Mercedes. Say hi to New Directions for me," I said in order to spare Kurt from any more Rachel drama.

Mercedes chuckled warmly. "Sure thing, Blaine. I'll have to endure the night with _Rachel_, though, so I may not survive long enough to see to that."

Commotion on the other end of the line, and then an aggravated Rachel squealing, "I heard that!"

"_Bye_, Rachel."

"Night, Kurt."

"Good night, Mercedes."

"Same to you, white boy."

Finally, Kurt, shaking his head rather ruefully, hit the "End Call" button on his iPhone's screen.

"Night, Blaine," he murmured, leaning over a pillow to turn the light switch off.

* * *

I must have looked tired and distracted during breakfast the next morning, because Wes and David sat themselves down in front of me and slid a waffle-laden platter towards me in complete unison.

"Thanks, guys," I said gratefully, drizzling cheap maple syrup over the waffles lamely.

Wes nodded and smiled at me, and then left the table, a clipboard in hand. David stayed, albeit preoccupied with his own plate of food. Only instead of having waffles, he was eating a steaming mushroom-and-cheese omelette.

"So," began David as he prodded at a rubbery mushroom with his fork. "Where's Kurt? Did he sleep okay last night?"

Forking some waffle into my mouth and nodded, chewed, and swallowed. "Um, I think he did. He's just getting ready. Did you know that he has a–"

"–morning skincare routine that takes up the better part of an hour? Yes."

Thad pulled his chair over to us from the table that was standing three feet away. "I think all the Warblers know, but he had better not be late," he deadpanned, toying with the strings of his undignified, extremely casual navy hoodie. It was weird dichotomy, really, seeing Thaddeus Meyers, head of the Warbler council's "triumvirate", all dressed up like a normal civilian instead of a Dalton tie and blazer.

"He's not going to be late," I assured him in between sips of sweet Lipton tea.

"In fact," said David, pointing to the doorway that led to the room elevators, "Speak of the devil. Or," He flashed a winning smile in my direction, "the _angel_." He exchanged a brief fist bump with Thad.

"One day, you will all work for me," I forced out between gritted teeth.

Kurt strolled over to our table calmly, wearing an outfit that was thankfully much simpler than the one he had worn the day before—skinny jeans, a fitted, patterned sweater, and his peacoat draped over his left arm. "For the record, Blaine, that just so happens to be _my _line."

"What?" asked David, head cocking in curiosity.

"The whole 'one day you will all work for me' line? Mine."

"_Oh._"

I cleared my throat awkwardly.

"Anyway," said Kurt diplomatically, "I'm sure Blaine was just commenting on the fact that while you two and Wes are head Warblers, he just happens to get all of the solos."

"Not all of them!" objected Thad and David at the same time.

"Just the big song-and-dance numbers," Kurt pointed out.

My hand flew to my mouth, keeping myself from sputtering out mouthfuls of tea.

Once I had stopped my impromptu spit-take in its tracks, I wiped my lips off with as much dignity as I could muster.

"Actually," I countered, "_Kurt_ was the soloist who got us to Nationals in the first place."

"Oh, cut the crap, Blaine," said Kurt. "It wasn't even a full-blown solo, I just got to sing a few lines by myself."

"That's considered a solo," called Wes from across the room.

"Irrefutably," added David.

Kurt pulled a chair into the table we were sitting at and stole a piece of buttered toast from Thad's plate.

"I rest my case," he conceded with a dignified sniffle and a bite of toast.

* * *

The remainder of the bus ride to New York City was a breeze, save for the whole hour it took for us to actually get _into_ the city. The description of the Big Apple being a huge, sprawling, and congested with traffic was scarily accurate. And as much as the Warblers and I loved Pennsylvania, nothing was comparable with the vibe that New York gave us.

Pennsylvania flew by us like rain on a car window as we all sang grand renditions of classic songs.

Including Wes and Nick's spirited performance of "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall" that took us all the way from Pittsburgh to the borders of New York—that is, until Mr. Goolsby candidly told us all to stop singing about alcoholic beverages unless if we wanted to get sent back home to Westerville. As you can imagine, that shut us up pretty well.

Only...

I really _was_ kind of preoccupied throughout the rest of the bus ride watching Kurt as he peered through the bus windows, his excitement clearly rising as morning came to a close and noon hit.

We had been sharing his iPhone to listen to music—I had the right earbud, he had the left—and he was subtly bobbing his head in time to the rhythms and beats in the midst of all the commotion that was Thad's impromptu rendition of "Bootylicious". His eyes were widened in an innocent sort of wonder as we passed through cities that were larger than any he had ever seen before. Not that he was some sort of Ohio bum, not at all. I'm guessing that he had done so much research and heard so many stories about the city of New York that seeing it all play out right in front of his eyes was a bit of a shock. And rightfully so.

I leaned over his shoulder and put my hand on his arm just a bit, watching him as he surveyed the new scenery.

"Fantastic..." he breathed out as he looked at a particularly minimalistically stylized building that we passed longingly.

"Even more fantastic than that?" I asked, pointing out the multitude of cars that were stuck in position all around us. "This traffic is insane."

Kurt smiled ruefully. "Of course it is. they're all trying to get to the greatest city in the universe." He paused. "I'm surprised there isn't more traffic than this, actually."

He turned to face me.

I'd hate to bore you all with winding descriptions of my gay hormonal teenage thoughts, but when Kurt looked up at me, I totally had one of those lame "his eyes are so preeetty" moments that happen in every romantic movie everywhere, rom-com and dramedy alike.

_Green, gray, or blue?_ asked my inner monologue relentlessly.

"Glasz," I muttered to myself underneath my breath.

"Excuse me?" Kurt questioned, brow creasing in confusion.

_You totally Wikipedia'ed that one, Blaine,_ my mind continued.

Instantly reddening, my body shot away from Kurt's. "Nothing," I said. "It's nothing."

* * *

_April 16, 2011. Three-fifteen P.M., New York City._

_Dear Journal—_

_ Well, we Warblers made it to New York without getting ourselves thrown off any suspension bridges. That's really good._

_ On the other hand, now we've got to enter business mode. Rehearsals upon rehearsals. Which means that I won't really get to talk to Blaine alone during the day. But that's okay, since we're roommates, anyway. No one else would rather share a room with me than Blaine. Because I'm supposed to be "one of his _best friends_!". Even after the "Baby, It's Cold Outside" incident last year's Christmas._

_ That incident really did get my hopes up._

_ But then Valentine's Day came and left and he didn't do anything._

_ And there really just aren't any other romantic holidays directly after Valentine's Day._

_ St. Patrick's Day, therefore, does not count._

_ Argh, codependency sucks._

_ We're finally pulling up to the hotel! Damn, it's huge. (That's what she said.)_

—_Kurt_

_

* * *

_

**A/N:** **Well, they finally made it to New York City. Next episode: Warblers rehearsal and pre-Nationals NYC sightseeing with Klaine & Co. :) Don't forget to review, add to story alert, favorite, etc.!**


	3. Blinding

**BRIGHT LIGHTS CH. 3: "BLINDING"**

**READ ME: Hey, guys! Typing this at 7:38 AM in the computer lab of my high school. ****BeRightThere**** kind of wanted me to get the Read Me/Author's Note done by this morning so that we'll just have to edit after that.**

**This chapter is mainly constructed of Blaine's flashbacks, so it kind of fills in the gaps of the Klaine relationship.**

**Also, "Thriller" preview? Yes! I'm pretty sure that was Darren Criss who was somersaulting over the sweater display at the GAP. **

**I saw a Glee billboard on my way to school today and almost had a heart attack. Okay so maybe not really, but you get the gist.**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Glee because Ryan Murphy does. Poo.**

**

* * *

**

It really didn't come to me as a surprise, the fact that Kurt had managed to land his first solo within his first year of being a Dalton Warbler. I mean, he _was_ a countertenor with a ridiculous range, and he certainly was skilled at putting on performances, what with his cheer-leading expertise given to him by his brief stint in the Cheerios.

"Kurt's talented," David was telling me as we climbed down the stairs to the Senior Commons together six months ago, in November. "Brought Evita to shame."

I smiled halfheartedly. "I know," I replied, almost tripping over the last carpeted step but catching myself at last minute.

"But you do know why we told you to tell him what you did, right, man?" David asked me, clapping his large hand on my back in some sort of attempt to keep me from face-planting in front of the entire senior student body. I shoved my hands deep into my trouser pockets.

"Yes," I admitted reluctantly, probably resembling a morbidly distraught toddler who had gotten too zealous with his father's hair gel.

"Because—"

I stopped him with a delicate raising of my left palm. "—it's all about the team. It's not about shoving people off of the runway, it's about letting them on."

"Right," said David. He looked pleased that I understood what he was saying, but that did nothing to improve upon my dismal mood.

"There'll be other solos for Kurt, Blaine," added Wes as he approached us from the velvet chaise by the fireplace. "He's a fantastic singer. Just maybe a little bit _too much_ for Sectionals."

"A-and he hardly has any experience singing solo at big competitions, anyway," Thad reminded me shakily, his face instantly clouding over in dismay when he saw my expression.

I massaged my temples. "You're making a voice like _that_," I said to Wes, gesturing angrily to the ceiling for no reason whatsoever, "sing _back-up_ for some song wherein he has to emulate the sounds of a _ukelele_. Tell me how that's fair, Wes!"

"I really don't get it," mumbled Randy, arms crossed over his red Dalton sweater vest. "I mean, it took you three years to become lead vocalist, Blaine."

I let out an exasperated sigh. "That's because I was late in going through puberty and my freaking voice kept on cracking in the middle of every song I tried to sing," I pointed out with a grimace.

The entire room went silent save for a few murmurs of agreement.

"And besides," continued Randy in his perpetual monotone, "I never get to sing lead. I have to beat-box through every single song. _No one_ likes to stand on the riser below mine, they say I spit too much." He gave us a little demonstration, beat-boxing the opening rhythms to "Hey, Soul Sister". Thad, who had been standing right in front of him, scowled as he took out a red-and-navy handkerchief from the pocket of his blazer and wiped at the back of his neck with as much dignity he could muster.

"I was the dude in the background going "doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo" during 'Teenage Dream', and you didn't hear me complaining," said Wes with a triumphant little grin.

"And when sectionals arrives, I get to be all 'HAAAAAAAAAAY' like an idiot while you get to sing about greeting your soul sister, Blaine," commented Thad with a rueful chuckle as he pocketed the soggy handkerchief.

"Long story short, man," said David, "We all get roles that suck sometimes. Sometimes you sing lead, and sometimes you don't. Most of the time, you end up 'ooh'ing in the background while someone else sings lead. We need Kurt to harmonize on the higher notes, since he's a countertenor anyway. Even ukeleles have high strings. Kurt's voice is a blessing even when he's not singing lead," He paced the room until he found himself standing next to Wes, who hummed in agreement and added in a conclusive, "He can make the big decisions when David, Thad, and I graduate next spring. Till then, the endearing spy is our little ukelele."

But that was all the way back last year when Kurt had auditioned for that Sectionals solo with his over-the-top rendition of Evita's 'Don't Cry For Me Argentina'. In February, when the Warbler Council began drawing together ideas for solos for Regionals, Wes, David, and Thad glazed over his name once more. He became the back-up vocalist for the Warbler version of La Roux's 'Bulletproof', humming and vocalizing the tune in a weirdly technologically harmonic way while an undoubtedly giddy David took lead vocals. For the first time in a year I was forced to sit on the lowest riser, murmuring out harmonies in time to the futuristic song.

So you can imagine my shock when Kurt _was_ given a solo in the song, albeit a tiny one.

During rehearsals for 'Bulletproof', David hit a rut.

It was in the bridge, and it was the high part, and, according to Thad, David sounded "like a dying bagpipe".

"You sound like a dying bagpipe," Thad said candidly as he adjusted his striped uniform tie.

David groaned. "Look, man, sorry. This is out of my range. Unless you want me to go all Bee Gees on you, and do falsetto."

The Warblers reached a mutual agreement right then and there that David, despite being black, would never be able to pull off the Bee Gees.

"No matter what you say, it's still out of my range!" David was insisting to Thad, who responded with a bored, "You want some cheese with that whine?".

Kurt's soft voice cut through the the melee. "Excuse me, if I may?" he asked, hands resting on his knees as he sat cross-legged on his riser.

David stopped his crazy hand gestures in their tracks and turned slowly to Kurt. "Yes, Kurt?"

"Not that it really matters to me or anything..." he began slowly. I could tell that it really did, though. Matter, I mean.

"...but if you want..."

I stood up abruptly. Motioning grandly to Kurt, and smiled my brightest, most charming smile and announced, "Kurt can sing the solo at the bridge."

Wes' eyebrows shot up so high that I could count the wrinkles that appeared his forehead from several yards away.

Kurt's voice faltered, and then, "I just thought that the blending of my voice and David's would create an interesting dichotomy. Besides, all of those notes are clearly within my range."

I exchanged a pleading glance with Wes, and then added, "It's only two lines."

Kurt smiled ruefully. "And both lines are the same, it's just a repeat of '_this time, I'll be bulletproof_'. Just a manipulation of the chorus, '_this time baby, I'll be bulle–'"_

"Okay, okay!" interrupted Thad, throwing his hands up in defeat. "We'll listen to Kurt Hummel sing the bridge."

"Places, everyone!" cried Mr. Goolsby from his seat in the audience. He had remained silent throughout the entire 'Bulletproof' fiasco, and was just then exercising his duties as our glee club advisor. "We'll start from the line about the watch ticking, go through the second-to last chorus, and then we'll hear the Hummel kid sing the bridge. Watch your posture, boys, you're slumping again. I know it's late, but Regionals are coming up and the Warblers have never had such a good chance at winning—Vocal Adrenaline just had their male lead graduate high school, and the New Directions tend to be endearing, but unorganized. We have to win the judges over without any gimmicks."

All the Warblers instantly stood up straighter on the risers, shoulder back and chests puffed out as we plastered huge grins on our faces, glistening with sweat because of the burning hot stage lights.

"_Tick, tick, tick, tick, on the watch_

_And life's too short for me to stop_

_Oh, baby_

_Your time is running out_

_I won't let you turn around_

_And tell you now I'm much too proud_

_All you do is fill me up with doubt."_

David's voice belted out the lines in rhythmic clarity, and the last words of his solo mingled perfectly with the all-inclusive chorus:

"_This time, baby, I'll be bulletproof_

_This time, baby, I'll be bulletproof_

_This time, baby, I'll be bulletproof_

_This time, baby, I'll be bulletproof..."_

The chorus was sung by the entirety of the Warblers, with little divots and dips in the harmony that allowed David's clear baritone to shine through melodiously.

Mr. Goolsby, from what I could tell, was responding enthusiastically, nodding during the last line in the chorus. He mouthed "Hummel!" as our voices slowed down and the tenors on the highest riser began humming like pan flutes.

Kurt planted his feet on the ground confidently, a shoulder width apart, and opened his mouth to sing.

"_This time, I'll be bulletproof_

_This time, I'll be bulletproof."_

We wrapped up the song with one last repeat of the chorus, stayed put in "performance mode" for another ten seconds, and then finally relaxed our bodies. Some of the Warblers sat down on their risers, but I kept myself upright, as did Kurt.

"Good job," I whispered to him. He beamed at me, his nose scrunching up a little bit as he did so.

_You found that unnecessarily adorable, didn't you, Blaine?_

Mr. Goolsby cleared his throat.

Wes and David looked utterly mollified.

"I think we kind of have to let him sing the solo, Mr. Goolsby," Wes admitted reluctantly. He took a swig of water from the aluminum canteen sitting on the floor next to him. "He pulled that off better than David."

"He put La Roux to shame," said Jeff Simon, who was staring at Kurt in admiration, mouth gaping open unattractively.

"I think it would have been cooler with the weird outfits," said Nick. "And the pixellated computer graphics. And the hair." He made a hand-over-head motion, trying to demonstrate La Roux's signature pompadour cut.

Kurt turned to Nick in disgust. "_Hairography_ is a cheap and underhanded way of getting ahead of competition."

David chuckled. "We've gotten accused of hairography before. I mean, have you seen Blaine's hair lately?" He poked at my gelled locks playfully, and I smacked him on the shoulder. "Hey!"

Jeff frowned, confused. He leaned over to Kurt—a little bit _too_ close, might I add—and whispered, "I don't get it. What's hairography?"

"It's just...well, using hair to distract your opponents from the flaws in your set list. You take an average show choir, give them fabulous wigs...they become amazing," Kurt explained. "They whip their hair around and it looks ridiculously impressive."

Jeff nodded in understanding. "Oh."

Kurt drummed his fingers on his knee thoughtfully. "Back when I was in New Directions, there was a glee club from the Jane Addams Academy thatused hairography extensively. It was almost disgusting to watch."

Jeff grunted in agreement and whispered something in Kurt's ear that I couldn't pick up on.

But on the walk back to the Senior Commons that day...

"Blaine," Kurt told me, his eyes dancing in the light of the fluorescents as we strode together through the West corridor of Dalton, shoulder-to-shoulder. "Jeff's asked me to the Valentine's Formal."

* * *

But it was April now, and the Valentine's Formal was over.

Kurt's solo had arguably won us Regionals, and that was only with two lines. And now we were in New York, _practicing_ for Nationals in the deserted auditorium of a high school near our hotel.

"Okay, Warblers!" cried Wes from his spot at the tip of the triangle the Warblers had formed on the practice stage. "When we do this formation, it's important that we move as a single unit. The point of the triangle is _undulation_. So Randy up there will have his position shift until he's the tip of the triangle. I have to be at the tip of the triangle at the end of the eight-count after that, and then you have another eight counts to get back into a rectangle."

We all grumbled, but shuffled along the risers to Wes' counts of, "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight! One, two three, four, five, six, seven, eight! Hold!"

Mr. Goolsby climbed onstage and examined our positions carefully. "Lawless, a little bit more to the left. Line yourself up with Mr. Vogt over there. Perfect. Continue, Wesley."

Wes nodded. "So after this we bridge into the ballad..."

I massaged my temples tiredly.

Kurt, on the other hand, was absolutely buzzed. He was continuously bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, hands held behind his back eagerly.

"Ready for your solo, Hummel?" I asked him playfully.

He shrugged nonchalantly. "Ready as I'll ever be. Ballads are kind of my thing, you know."

"Really? Not the big, campy song-and-dance numbers?"

"Ballads are easier to sing when you have the feelings to put behind them," Kurt admitted, a slight rosy blush appearing on his cheeks.

_Do not take that the wrong way, Anderson_, my subconscious growled menacingly.

"Hummel!" called Thad from somewhere on the opposite side of the rectangle we had formed earlier. "Stop talking with Blaine and get in the zone for practice! Nationals are in a _week_, you hear?"

Kurt smiled prettily. "Of course, Thaddeus."

Even in practice, his voice soared over the tinkling, glittering notes of our harmony.

* * *

_April 16, 2011. 4:00 P.M., Hamilton High School Auditorium, New York City._

_Dear Journal—_

_I guess we're not going to get any rest now that we're finally in New York. We didn't even get the chance to look at the hotel rooms, yet. Wes hurried us off the bus and made us leave our luggage with the concierge. Whoever owns the New York City Hyatt must be pissed, there's got to be like thirty different bags sitting there uneventfully, all tagged and wrapped up in cellophane. I can't imagine we'd get in too much trouble, though. Nick Vogt's family owns a part of the Hyatt, which is why we keep staying there._

_Blaine seems to care a lot about my solo. I really don't know what to say about it. Probably something lame, like, "Hey, Mr. Blaine-Mixed-Signals. Why don't you say what you actually feel for once in your life instead of being so frickin' perfect all the time?"_

_That would make my life undeniably easier._

_If only Blaine was more honest. More like, say, Jeff Simon. Except I really don't feel much for Mr. Simon. He's nice and all, but..._

_To be truthful...he's just not Blaine._

—_Kurt_

_

* * *

_

"Anderson! Hey, Anderson!"

I stopped in my tracks, scratching my head in annoyance when I saw who was calling my name—Jeff Simon, the strings of his hoodie flapping around messily and his half-tucked in, half tucked-out shirt beating against his pants with every step he took.

"What do you want, Jeff?" I asked, trying my best to remain patient. It was hard not to imagine throttling the guy's neck with a hellish fury.

Jeff took a moment to fix his t-shirt before looking down at me (he was taller than me by a good four inches) to say, "You stayed with Kurt last night."

I nodded calmly. "I did."

"Yes, I know you did. The thing is, I'm _pretty_ sure that I signed up to room with Kurt before you did, Blaine."

My eyes narrowed. "How on earth would you know that?"

Jeff let out a harsh laugh. "Always the polite and dapper one, aren't you, Anderson?"

I shook my head and said, "Actually, don't answer my question, why don't you?" I clenched my fists inside of the kangaroo pockets of my jacket. "I'm only going to ask you one more time: how would you know that?"

He shrugged. "I'm pretty sure I was first in line to sign up for roommates. And I know that you talked to David about the issue. You and David are best friends, of course he'd change the arrangements for you. For you and Kurt, actually."

"Okay..." I replied quietly, not wanting to meet Jeff's obviously fake blue-green-hazel eyes. Jeff had taken to wearing colored contacts daily, even though he had perfect vision and no need for prescription lenses. I think he thought it made him seem deeper, more interesting.

"I talked to Wes. He said he'd fix the arrangements again."

I managed to keep my solemn poker face constant. "In your favor?"

"Most likely," Jeff affirmed. "I mean, you may be the Warblers' golden boy, but you still broke ground rules."

I sighed. "Since when do we _ever_ follow the rules?"

Jeff sneered at me. "Funny. I always knew Kurt was a little bit too good for you. Look at you, manipulating the Council just to get him into your pants."

I stopped walking instantly and turned to Jeff.

"I do _not_ want to get into Kurt's pants, _Jeff_. He has gone through so damn much so far and I am _trying_ to help him," I growled. "Last thing he needs is a boyfriend."

_That was a lie, Blaine. _

_ Not about the pants part!_ the more reasonable side of my brain argued.

_Well, no, I meant about the boyfriend part. You want it, too._

"He certainly looks like he wants some kind of significant other," Jeff retorted smoothly, examining his fingernails. "He just doesn't know it because you're kind of in his face all of the time. You baby him too much, Blaine."

"Jeff Simon, you will stop talking to me right now. Yes, Kurt may want a boyfriend. Sure he might. Fighting over him like little children isn't going to help him, though. Now..."

Jeff looked at me, a funny expression blooming on his face.

I ignored him and continued. "...we are going to forget about this conversation because we need to keep our spirits up for Nationals. I can _honestly_ tell you that I could not care less about who he rooms with, just so long as the aforementioned roommate doesn't try to pull anything on him."

He held his hand out for me to shake. "Promise you that, Anderson. He'll be just fine with me."

I shuddered a little bit at that, but swallowed the bile in my throat immediately. My trembling hand clenched over his.

"Bye," I muttered, and Jeff hurried away from me and entered the spinning doors of the hotel.

* * *

When the Warblers managed to congregate in the center of the hotel lobby, Thad grabbed a chair from the concierge desk and stood on it, waving several pieces of paper in one hand and a rubber-banded stack of plastic room keys in the other.

He made a motion to Randy, who seemed to understand and boomed out in his low voice, "Warblers, shut up."

We all stopped talking. I felt Kurt squeeze my arm slightly as if to tell me, "Sorry I just shut up in the middle of my sentence. If I didn't, I could quite possibly get my penis chopped off by a particularly vindictive Thad."

"So, Warblers," said Thad in his authoritative head-Warbler voice. "I have the room keys and roommate list right here. We had to, er, edit it to some extent to fix some discrepancies..."

The Warblers instantly began to whisper to one another, wondering what exactly had gone wrong in the room pairing process.

"Did Kurt and Blaine have sex or something last night?" whispered one of the mousy, prepubescent freshmen in awe.

I smacked him on the temple. "No!" denied Kurt and I shrilly.

"Did _Wes_ and _Dav—"_

"No," I replied flatly. Kurt and I exchanged equally amused looks; Wes and David's epic bromance had an even larger fan following than the dysfunctional, _so_-not-happening relationship of Kurt and I.

Thad cleared his throat and looked at the paper in concentration.

"Wes, your handwriting is hard to read," he complained as he scrutinized Wes' famed chicken scratch.

Wes ignored him.

"Okay, so Nick Vogt? Where are you, Nick Vogt?" Nick's head bobbed up from the crowd and he shot a hand up in the air. Thad beamed. "You're rooming with me now instead of Randy."

Nick looked up at Thad, who was still perched proudly on the concierge's chair.

"Um...why?" he questioned, confusion clouding over his face.

Randy looked even more befuddled than Nick. "I don't understand," he mumbled.

Thad pointed to the wrinkled paper in demonstration. "I don't know, Wes was the one who changed the roommate listing."

Wes shrugged. "I was just fulfilling a request. Something about irreconcilable differences. Or maybe it was about a manipulation of the listing. Don't remember," he explained solemnly.

"So who am I rooming with, then?" Randy queried slowly.

"I'm getting to that, Lawless," said Thad as he scanned over the list again.

Randy rubbed his eyes tiredly. "I'd like this to get finished in time for dinner. We're all exhausted," he slurred impatiently.

Kurt's face moved closer to mine. "We're all tired," he murmured. I nodded in agreement.

"Blaine Anderson and Kurt Hummel," Thad called suddenly.

And I knew what was coming. He was going to separate Kurt and I, and make him room with Jeff. Jeff had roomed with Nick during the layover, which was why Thad had switched him out for Randy.

Kurt jerked his head away from mine and gave Thad a reluctant, "Yes, Thad?"

"We're splitting you two up as well," Thad reported, and I could tell he was bracing himself for Kurt's bitchy side.

The entirety of the Warblers seemed to exchange comments on _that_ tidbit of information. I noticed that the small minority of freshmen Warblers were exchanging high-fives.

"I knew they did the deed at the Hyatt," bragged a freshman to his friend who was standing beside him and nodding fervently.

"Can you believe it?" the ginger-haired freshman replied, his bright green eyes wide and dazed.

"Silence in the hall!" barked Wes.

Kurt's eyes glazed over in shock. "Why?" he asked, his voice faltering for a little bit.

"Courage," I reminded him in a quiet whisper. Kurt resolutely swiped a hand through his gelled bangs, pushing them out of his face.

Thad tore his gaze away from the paper and simply replied, "No reason that I'm aware of." It was a rotten lie.

"We didn't...do _anything_ last night," insisted Kurt stoutly.

"I know."

Randy made a grunting noise that made Kurt and Thad fall silent.

"Could you just get to the point, Thad?" he inquired impatiently.

Thad let out a loud sigh. "Jeff Simon."

"What about Jeff?" demanded Kurt, his grip on my arm tightening.

I braced myself for Thad's next words: probably something along the lines of "_You're rooming with him, Kurt. You're rooming with Jeff Simon." _Or maybe something more like, _"Hey, Blaine. You're not staying with Kurt, Jeff Simon is. The police are coming to arrest you on charges of sexual abuse."_

I really didn't want to hear it.

Not at all. And it took every fibre of my being to not storm out of the Hyatt like...

Well, from what I could assume from Kurt's many New Directions stories, like Rachel Berry.

"Jeff Simon," Thad announced tiredly, running his hand through his short, wavy brown hair and looking terribly exhausted. "He's staying in room 1703 with Blaine Anderson."

* * *

**A/N: Damn, cliffhanger. I'll explain the craziness next chapter. Till then, spare a review? Don't forget to favorite and add to story alert! :D :D :D Also, anyone who can guess the name of Kurt's ballad gets emotional satisfaction when I release the Nationals chapter.**


	4. Concrete

**WELCOME TO THE BRIGHT LIGHTS CH. 4: "CONCRETE"**

**READ ME: So here's what you missed on ****Welcome to the Bright Lights****:**

_**The Warblers have finally made it to Nationals which are in—get this—New York City. All seems pretty well in Warblerland, especially for Kurt, who's super excited at the prospect of sharing a room with Blaine and having his own solo in a ballad for Nationals. But Blaine's been having a rough time, trying to ward off Kurt's many suitors because he kind of, sort of has feelings for everyone's favorite blue-eyed countertenor. The main snag? Jeff Simon, a walking cliche and possible love interest for one Kurt Hummel.**_

** Well, here we are! We made it to Chapter Four! *golf claps* Club can't handle us. Thank you so much for your kind reviews, favorites, and story alerts, and please keep 'em coming!**

**DISCLAIMER: I own this lame fanfiction, but Ryan Murphy owns Glee.**

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"Excuse me?" I asked in disbelief, pointing to an equally disconcerted Jeff. He looked like he had just been electrified, what with his spiky blond hair and his wide, color-contacted eyes.

"You're rooming with Jeff," Thad reiterated slowly, pointing to the boy in question with a trembling index finger.

Jeff pushed through the assortment of various Warblers roughly until he was standing right at the foot of Thad's chair. "Wait—wait! There's got to be some mistake! I completely refuse to room with Anderson."

I stared at Kurt, trying to understand what exactly was going on. Kurt looked just as confused as I was, and his bright, watery blue eyes were piercing into mine. "Blaine?" he whimpered. "I really _don't_ want to room with him."

"I agree," I said loudly, "I don't understand how this happened. There's no reason to split Kurt and I up."

"The reason is, like, totally nonexistent," Jeff was saying, his hands pulling on his bleached-blond hair. He quickly strode over to Wes, who was idly checking the time on his watch.

"Wes, we made a deal!" Jeff near shouted, stabbing a finger in his direction. "You told me you'd restore the list to the way it had been before Blaine and David tampered with it!"

Kurt immediately snapped out of his dazed stupor. "You tampered with the roommate list?" he demanded, "What the hell, Blaine?"

I threw my hands up in defeat. "Yes, Kurt, I got David to fix the roommate list. But it wasn't for a bad reason—"

Kurt's eyes narrowed at me suspiciously. "Oh, I am so _sure,_ Blaine. What were you thinki—"

"Kurt, you and I both know that you'd rather room with me than room with Jeff—"

His voice was rising in pitch until it was absolutely shrill with seething anger. "What, and you didn't think of asking me first?"

"I-I guess I didn't," I admitted sheepishly.

Jeff sneered. "Of course you didn't, Blaine. I'm surprised that you actually messed this up. Look at that, everyone, Blaine Anderson _isn't_ as perfect as you all think he is."

All of the arguing and bickering was cut off by a very resolute Wes literally pushing Thad off of the concierge chair and slamming the wooden gavel he had hidden in his hoodie pocket into the chair seat.

"Warblers!" he commanded, and we all shut up and directed our attentions to the unassuming Asian guy in the middle of the hotel lobby. "We're in a public venue, can we please _not_ start the next Trojan War?"

David barked out an abrupt laugh. "Kurt would _so_ be Helen."

"Blaine would be King Menelaus," said Nick with an obnoxious wink.

"I guess that Jeff's Paris, then," added Randy with a dopey grin.

They all exchanged spirited fist bumps and tried to contain their laughter by shoving their heads down the neck-holes of their sweaters.

Wes shot a chastising glance at David, who immediately straightened up and stopped making lame mythological references.

"_Anyway_," Wes continued as he pocketed the gavel once more, "Don't blame me for changing the roommate listings like that. You brought this all upon yourselves."

Jeff cocked his head to the side. "Come again?"

"Well, since you guys were fighting so much over the innocent Kurt Hummel, I decided to take him out of the entire ordeal and save him the trouble of being fought over like an object. If you're going to be all annoying about it, then neither of you is going to be able to room with him. That is that," explained Wes.

"It makes sense," remarked Thad.

"But you felt the need to pair us up?" I asked, the enmity still intact in my voice.

Wes looked flabbergasted. "Well, obviously. I'm not going to pair you up with some poor innocent Warbler. They'd have to deal with your endless blathering about Hummel."

I turned to look at Kurt, whose lip was jutted out in an angry sort of pout.

"I can still hear you," he reminded us snidely.

"We know," Wes, David, Thad, Nick, Randy, Jeff, and I groaned in unison.

"We know, too!" chorused the gaggle of skinny freshmen who had clumped together in the corner of the hotel lobby like pee on kitty litter.

"Kurt," I began pleadingly. "I'm so sorry, this shouldn't have happened—"

Kurt interrupted me with a scathing, "We'll discuss this later."

I nodded slowly.

Thad arched his brows. "Wes, you going to continue with the list?"

"Yeah," Kurt agreed flatly. "For example, you have yet to tell me who I'm rooming with."

Silence reigned in the lobby, save for the scattered mutterings of the hotel customers who were milling about, trying to avoid the cacophony produced by the Warblers.

"Oh!" Thad exclaimed, answering his own question. "You're rooming with Randy Lawless."

Oh. Randy. He wasn't too bad.

_I mean, for one thing, he's straight. And therefore not attracted to Kurt._

Randy was a hulking mass of a guy with eyebrows thicker than mine and a low voice that spoke mostly in deadpan. He always forgot to wear his blazer to school and was one of the few Dalton students who walked around proudly in a plain sweater vest—everyone agreed that the red-trimmed, navy uniform jackets were so much more attractive. But he was kind and he was fair, and I could see why Wes would place him with Kurt. To, you know. Save him from the craziness.

One of the Warblers, the lanky Polish one, Matteusz, let out a low whistle, and we all turned to glare at him.

"Sorry," he intoned smoothly with a cool, confident smirk. "Couldn't help myself, this situation's just too hilarious."

"Shove it up your ass, Matt," snarled Kurt.

Wes slammed his pocket-gavel on the chair again. "Language!" he cried.

Kurt rolled his eyes.

_Oh, God. Here comes Kurt Hummel, Diva-Bitch extraordinaire_.

"I'm totally cool with staying with Kurt," Randy mumbled as he snatched the plastic room key from Thad's hand.

Thad looked like he could kiss Randy for having his head screwed on nice and straight. "Thank you so much," he breathed gratefully. "Restoring the order of things and ridding the world of the craziness."

Wes and David exchanged quiet glances, and Wes stood on tiptoe in order to whisper something into Thad's ear. He stared off into space for a few seconds and then shook his head, bringing himself back to planet earth.

"Okay, guys, change of plans," Thad announced. "I'm just going to post the roommate list on the bulletin board by the check-in desk. Take your complaints to the Hyatt staff."

"What about the room key-cards?" asked Matteusz, pursing his lips warily.

Thad held up a finger and replied with a quick, "One moment."

He managed to get a minuscule freshman to run the rubber-banded stack of room keys over to the front desk.

"There you go, fend for yourself at the front desk," David ordered happily, pushing the throng of Warblers in that general direction.

Kurt scowled as several annoyed Warblers jostled him in order to get closer to the front desk.

"Hey," Kurt murmured, "can we talk?" He settled his hands on his slim hips, waiting for an answer.

I shook my head wryly. I could feel my face burning up with embarrassment—how exactly did it happen? I mean, wow. What a coincidence, right?

Complete and utter shit.

Kurt lifted one of his perfectly shaped brows at me disdainfully. "What?" he asked me, his harsh expression softening just a little bit.

I could swear that I felt my mouth moving. I don't think anything actually came out, though. Kurt was just standing there, reveling in the stiff silence and looking completely unimpressed.

_Lost for words. Impressive, Anderson_, quipped my vicious inner monologue as I stood there, twiddling my thumbs and trying to think up the right words to say.

_Sorry, Kurt. I have this weird protective instinct for you, and I didn't want Jeff to hurt you. I think that I just trespassed the borders of "creeper", so I am just going to retreat into a very small, very dark abyss where no one can find me. _

No, no. That wouldn't work.

I looked straight at him. His fingers trembled just slightly as he brought them up to his forehead to lift his bangs out of his face again.

"I'm sor—" I faltered. "I'm sorry, Kurt."

His vibrant blue eyes gazed into mine, then tore away wordlessly.

Much as I hate to admit it, after that I just did what I was best at.

Running.

Because when you fall into shit that deep, there's really nothing else you can do.

* * *

_April 16, 2011, 6:30 P.M., The Hyatt, New York City_

_Dear Journal—_

_I can't believe it._

_It hasn't even been our first day in the Big Apple, and there's already _

_Warbler drama unfolding. Only this time, instead of revolving around Wes' lost pet gavel, or Thad's promiscuous girlfriend, it's revolving around Blaine and I._

_ And it's only serving to screw our dysfunctional, so-close-but-yet-so-far relationship up even more._

_ We're not going to be able to talk. Blaine's absolutely pissed about having to room with Jeff Simon, and by the looks of it, he's pretty mad at me, too. _

_ So we're finally getting into our rooms. Randy's in the elevator with the luggage as I type. _

—_Kurt_

_

* * *

_

Well, after drama that intense, I figured that the best thing to do was pretend that it never happened.

Jeff, however, seemed to think otherwise. He had gone over to the front desk, grabbed our room key, and pranced all gallantly towards to elevators, leaving me with two huge suitcases and two carry-ons to lug on upstairs. I was biting my lip in frustration as the leather handles dug into my fingers.

"You need help with that, sir?" inquired a smartly-dressed bellboy, pointing towards the luggage with a gloved hand. "I can help you get it into the elevator and to your room."

"Actually, sure," I admitted gratefully as he pulled a brass luggage cart from the corner and started piling the baggage up. The elevator gave out a small ringing noise when it landed on the lobby floor, and he held the "open" door long enough for me to get in. As I entered the elevator, I took a quick look at his name plaque—Ricardo.

I was one of the last Warblers to get upstairs, actually. After escaping a confrontation with Kurt, I had concealed myself behind a potted plant, peering out every so often to make sure that no one could find me. And after fifteen minutes of that, when the last vestiges of Warblers picked up their room keys, I had miserably stepped out of my hiding place and grabbed the luggage.

"So you're a Warbler?" the bellhop asked conversationally as the floor numbers beeped as the elevator went higher and higher.

"Yes," I replied. "I hope we weren't too disruptive."

Ricardo shrugged. "You were, but I don't mind. That catfight was ridiculously entertaining."

I did a double take of the bellhop out of curiosity. He was young, Latino, and, judging by the perfect spit-shined quality of his shoes that matched his gelled, shiny black hair, gayer than a daffodil.

"All boys school, must be pretty amazing," the bellhop continued with a vaguely reminiscent look on his face.

The elevator dinged and came to a complete stop. Once again, the bellhop kept the doors open for me and proceeded to wheel the cart to the left, the wheels making little whiny noises as their rolled about on the carpeted floor.

"There's more drama than you'd think," I admitted.

"I went to an all boys school in New Hampshire. Excellent but traumatizing experience."

I made a small hum of agreement.

"He's going to be fine, you know," the bellhop said suddenly. "The Kurt character that you and the Warblers were discussing. I don't know your relationship with any of them, but..."

I looked up at him. "Thanks," I said.

"No problem," the bellhop Ricardo replied with an easy grin.

That brief, stilted conversation did wonders for my mood, and I managed a smile that wasn't quite as bad as a grimace as I knocked on the smooth white door, the four bags at my feet.

"Coming," I could hear Jeff grunt as he unlocked the heavy hotel door.

"Thanks for leaving me all the luggage, Jeff. Ridiculously nice of you," I said sarcastically, pointing to the bags on the floor with an ironic little grin.

"No problem," Jeff replied as he happily extracted an iPod from the carry-on at my feet.

Impossible. This guy was absolutely impossible.

With that, the headphones were stuck onto his ears, and the music was obviously blasted so loud that there was no way in hell that Jeff Simon was going to be able to listen to me rant about his sheer idiocy. The good mood instilled after meeting Ricardo, the kind, sympathetic bellhop? Gone.

I shuffled into the room, dragging my stuff behind me, and instantly collapsed onto my double bed as soon as it was within reach.

"Turn the music off, Jeff, I need to talk to you," I grumbled, my voice muffled by a pillow.

Jeff pulled one of the earbuds out and cocked his ear towards me. "Huh?" he asked.

He was eating a Subway sandwich at the desk of the hotel. So stereotypical. Jeff dabbed at his lips with a napkin pointedly and pressed something on the iPod. His distracted expression straightened up, so I guessed he wasn't listening to his music anymore.

"Dude, really? A sandwich?" I asked, trying to keep my voice as pleasant as possible. I sat up in the bed and leaned against the headboard.

"Kept it in my bag. Got it during break," Jeff shrugged and took another bite. I watched as a slice of tomato fell out of the constraints of the bread and onto Jeff's lap.

"You have anything else to eat?" I inquired half-heartedly.

Jeff shot a disapproving look at me, but pulled a plastic bag out of his plaid satchel. "Here," he said, tossing it in my general direction. I caught it just before it hit the lamp.

"Thanks."

"Welcome."

We continued in silence for another ten minutes, Jeff calmly finishing his foot-long, me eating Wheat Thins out of Jeff's plastic baggy miserably. Not going to lie, I was definitely and desperately trying to finish them all in an act of vicious, cruel spite.

It was difficult, though. The guy had dumped a whole entire box of Wheat Thins into the bag, it seemed.

"So," began Jeff as he crumpled up the waxed paper and threw it into the little trash bin by the desk, "Roommates, huh?"

"Yup," I intoned, popping another Wheat Thin into my mouth.

_Stop that, Blaine Anderson, you are going to get fat. _

_ But they're Wheat Thins!_

"Can't believe it. There clearly isn't a God," complained Jeff.

"Uh-huh."

"No offense, Anderson."

"Sure."

Silence, and another three Wheat Thins put into my mouth.

"You're eating them all," Jeff remarked.

"I am." I ate another one as if to prove a point.

"They're my Wheat Thins."

"I know."

_It was my Kurt Hummel, you slimy bastard._

There I sat, Blaine Raphael Anderson, closeted obsessive stalker, eating all of one Jeff Simon's Wheat Thins because of my aforementioned obsession with one Kurt Hummel.

If you could call platonic, friendly feelings an obsession.

The entire awkwardness of the situation was enough to make one want to stab oneself repeatedly in the eye with the handle of Wes' gavel.

"You're going to finish them!" Jeff exclaimed suddenly, snatching the half-filled bag from my crumb-covered hands.

I didn't care anymore, so I let him take the Wheat Thins away from me.

"Why did you do it?" Jeff asked suddenly.

"What, eat the Wheat Thins?" I replied sourly.

"No!"

"What, then?"

"Manipulate the roommate list."

I shrugged halfheartedly. "I wanted to room with Kurt," I admitted reluctantly. "He's my best friend, and spending time with him is pleasant."

Jeff snorted. "Sure, Anderson."

"Why did you want to stay with him?" I countered, brushing the leftover salt from my fingertips.

Jeff paused for a moment, and then whispered, "You know how I feel about Kurt."

"All the Warblers do, trust me," I assured him.

"You never did anything. I did. Why are you so possessive?"

I ran my hand through my hair. "You don't know what the kid's been through," I explained. Jeff didn't look pacified.

"B.S.," he told me.

"He never told you anything about what he's gone through!"

"Kurt's strong. You're not seriously forbidding him from entering a relationship with someone because of his past, right? Seriously, Anderson? Grow a pair."

"Already did," I chuckled to myself. "And I'm not forbidding it. Just protecting him from the things that are going to hurt him."

"How are you so sure?"

"I—"

"You're not sure, that's what."

I stopped talking for a moment there.

"I don't know if anyone's told you this, Blaine," said Jeff tiredly, reaching into the bag of Wheat Thins, "but you kind of suck."

"What do you mean?" I demanded.

"You've pretty much been leading him one since Day One. Kid's probably sick and tired of your concerned face. Your eyebrows get all droopy and you purse your lips." I made a face at him. "Yeah, like that."

"You think he'd date you?" I questioned him.

"Me? Sure. I'm tall, available, talented, and, you know. Actually gay and not afraid of acting on or accepting my feelings. And I'm tall."

I was shorter than Kurt, and Jeff knew it. He was trying to pinpoint my weak spots.

"My height is just a result of polygenic inheritance from the Asian side of my family!" I protested.

"Whatever, Hobbit," Jeff rolled his eyes and shoved the Wheat Thins back into his satchel. "I'm going to the bathroom."

I rolled over onto my side and checked my phone. The screen blinked and glowed. No new messages from Kurt Hummel.

_No news is good news._ I thought to myself, momentarily regretting the number of Wheat Thins I had downed in the past half hour and rolling over to my side.

* * *

_April 17, 2011. 2 A.M., the Hyatt, New York City._

_ Dear Journal—_

_ Damn. Not even five hours into this rooming-with-Randy thing and I already have developed a strong loathing for it._

_ And it's not that Randy's that bad of a guy—he's pretty uneventful and he lets me be and he even let me use up the entire hotel room closet—it's just that, well..._

_ Randy's kind of a Bible-thumper. His unwavering devotion to the Flying Spaghetti Monster is tiring. He was reciting an entire Novena two hours ago at midnight. _

_ "What are you doing?" I had demanded._

_ "Praying," he had replied, as if it was the simplest thing in the world to understand._

_ "You believe in that stuff?"_

_ "I kind of have to if I want to become a priest."_

_ "That's...nice."_

_ "..."_

_ "...you do this every day?"_

_ "Morning and night."_

_ Rooming with Randy. It could be a freaking reality TV show. Or possibly a bad joke._

_ You know, gay kid and pastor walk into a bar. Ba-dum-ching._

—_Kurt_

_

* * *

_

Breakfast the next morning was stilted and awkward. I elected to sit as close to David and as far away from Kurt as possible. I couldn't bring myself to look Kurt in the eyes, even though it was apparent that he needed some sort of affirmation of yesterday's happenings.

Since David sat with the majority of Kurt's friends, Kurt had no choice but to sit in the table in the far corner where Randy and Matt were sitting boorishly. Randy had a philosophy book open at his lap and was eating a plate of cubed fruit, and Matt was poring over some Chinese book of maxims. All in all, Kurt looked absolutely miserable.

Wes, after taking a few glances at Kurt and I, nudged me on the shoulder and quietly asked, "Why aren't you talking to Kurt?"

I chewed and swallowed a bite of sausage. "No reason," I said tersely, and lamely began sawing away at a particularly tough piece of Canadian bacon with my knife and fork.

"I'm guessing Blaine really is morbidly depressed. He never eats this much," commented Thad as he flicked through several pages of sheet music.

"No'm not," I mumbled through a mouthful of bacon.

David sighed. "Look, man, I know that I kinda screwed up a little bit for encouraging you to meddle with the roommate list..."

Wes shot a withering glance at David. "I agree wholeheartedly, David, what the hell were you thinking?"

David shrugged in response. "It's pretty obvious that Kurt's been floating away from Blaine for some time now. I thought that them rooming together would let them reconnect."

"Blaine, you need to talk to Kurt," Thad said firmly.

I wordlessly continued to eat my breakfast.

"Hey, Randy," greeted Thad as the huge Warbler in question got up from his seat by the corner, pocketed his book, and approached us in his slow saunter.

"Blaine, Kurt's downright depressed," Randy grunted, taking a grape from Wes' plate and popping it into his mouth.

"We've got the same problem over here, Randy," David replied, pointing to me in accusation.

"Kurt's in the bathroom right now, we need to get this conversation over, fast. Don't want Kurt to know we're discussing him and Blaine," announced Matt as he approached our table.

"You're fine with talking about it in front of me?" I inquired quizzically.

"Sure," Matt said.

"Talk to Kurt," Randy told me.

"Now," added Matt, sticking his nose up at me egotistically.

My head dropped down until it almost collided with my empty breakfast plate, and my shoulders sagged down. Randy and Matt took a moment to glare at my defeated form, and then walked back to their corner just before Kurt exited the bathroom.

David personally took up the duty of jogging over to Kurt and wheeling him right in front of my chair, where I was sitting all dejected and exhausted. Kurt raised both his eyebrows at me and crossed his arms over his shirt (asymmetrically cut and a bright blue color that matched his eyes perfectly).

` "What's his problem?" Kurt murmured into Wes' ear.

"Don't know, but you need to talk to him," Wes explained.

I refused to move.

"Blaine!" Wes barked, pulling a gavel from his pocket at waving it at me threateningly.

I shot up from my seat and sprinted to the empty office by the open breakfast hall, motioning for Kurt to follow.

* * *

Kurt shut the glass door behind him and catapulted himself into the first cushioned chair he could lay his hands on. I settled into the chair in front of him and wondered what I could say to fix the situation.

Kurt pursed his lips and rested his chin on his hand, drumming at the tabletop with his fingers idly. Then he sighed audibly, looked me in the eyes, and cleared his throat.

"Blaine?" he was telling me timidly.

"...yes?" I managed to squeak out, hoping my voice wasn't cracking as much as I thought it was.

Kurt shut his eyes, and then opened them again slowly. "How about this: I talk, and you listen. Okay?"

I nodded, staring at the reflective surface of the table in front of me. The cubicles to my left were all filled with glowing desktop computers, and for a moment, the only thing I was able to hear was the buzzing and humming of the devices, mixed with the occasional laughter of the people who were walking around outside of the office room.

Kurt shook his shoulders out slightly as if in preparation, and opened his mouth to begin.

**A/N: I just love cliffhangers. Review! Favorite! Story Alert! **

** Ahaha, my friend ****BeRightThere**** was reading the rough draft for this and was like, "When's Ricardo coming back? I like him already." Funny thing was that I wasn't even planning on using Ricardo again in later chapters. Guess I kind of have to now. She was joking around and was like, "You are making Blaine such an idiot and Jeff such a douche that your readers are going to start shipping RicardoxKurt." What do you think? Kurtcardo, Keff, or Klaine? Haha.**

** Spot the **_**A Separate Peace**_** reference and you get a virtual cookie. Guess Kurt's ballad for Nationals correctly and you get a hug.**


	5. Whims

**WELCOME TO THE BRIGHT LIGHTS CH. 5: "WHIMS"**

**READ ME: So, I just finished watching the new episode of Glee with one of my fellow Klaine whores. We are now fully distraught about the lack of sweet, sweet Klaine in that stupid episode—though I must admit that I DID spend an awful lot of time staring at the amazing Dalton uniform overcoats. Damn. ALSO:**

** KURT: We love football! I mean, Blaine loves football. I love scarves.**

**Sorry, Kurt. I love you more than Blaine loves football or you love scarves. So there.**

** After reading the newest installation of "Welcome to the Bright Lights", why not try checking out my controversially-song-selected oneshot, ****In Which Kurt Takes Advice From a Diva****? The song selection was over-the-top, but it is supposed to be kinda tongue-in-cheek...**

**DISCLAIMER: I obviously don't own Glee. Ryan Murphy does a fan-freaking-tastic job, though.**

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"I'm not going to ask why you did it, or why you didn't want Jeff to room with me. Personally, I don't know why you're so worried about Jeff. I mean, sure he creeps me out, and is just about as interesting as a pair of plastic safety scissors. And when I went to the Valentine's Formal with him, he spent the entire time quoting Taylor Swift and eating all of the Bugles. I guess some people could find that endearing, but I myself certainly do not.

"And see, the thing is, Blaine, I'm not exactly sure how I feel about you just going in and controlling that list without asking me first. You're one of my best friends, and I know that we've got a lot of trust in our relationship, but believe me, I've had so many things taken away from we without my consent. My mother, my first real kiss...and okay, maybe only two things. But still, a heads-up would have been nice.

"Your friendship with me has been really great so far. It really has. And at Dalton I feel like I actually have _options_, Blaine. _Options_, for the very first time in my life, and it's amazing and the people I've been meeting are absolutely amazing...so you can imagine that the whole 'I manipulated the roommate list' is disturbing."

Kurt stopped, chewing on the inside of his mouth thoughtfully. I tried to open my mouth to speak, but I was cut off by Kurt again:

"Not that I wouldn't like to room with you. I mean, I love...I love rooming with you."

After that, Kurt just sat there, his legs crossed primly and his blue eyes boring into mine.

"You can talk now," he said gently, nudging my shin with the toe of his shoe from underneath the table.

"Oh," I said, reveling in how anticlimactic the entire ordeal had been.

Kurt heaved a great sigh and slumped forward on the table. "That was too forward of me," he told me.

"No, no it wasn't, Kurt," I replied, fiddling with fabric of my jacket. "It wasn't too forward at all. I actually kind of deserved it." My voice got lower as I moved forward a bit. "It was wrong of me to assume things like that. Of course you get your own say in the matter."

Kurt looked relieved. "Thanks, Blaine."

_You're welcome, Kurt._

In my mind, I was blindly grasping for the reasons behind it all. Why had I agreed to the manipulation of Kurt's roommate? Why did I even care?

On one hand, I knew what Jeff was capable of. He made himself seem like a regularly deep, handsome guy—very tall, very blond, very poetic, very folksy—but he was also extremely impulsive. And I didn't want any of that near Kurt. Jeff didn't know about Karofsky and Kurt's resulting trust issues. Jeff didn't know that if he _did_ pull something, Kurt would just pretend it didn't bother him. I would know if it was tearing him apart from the inside. Jeff would laugh it off and start spewing off some lovey-dovey song on his acoustic guitar.

"I just didn't want you to get hurt," I told him earnestly.

"I think I know that," Kurt mumbled. "But you really need to stop treating me like I'm breakable or something—trust me Blaine, I'm not."

"He's in love with you," I whispered down to my shoes as a slumped even further into the chair.

Kurt swayed a little bit in his seat.

"You don't have to say anything about that," I added hastily after getting a quick glance of his expression.

"I know he's in love with me," Kurt admitted reluctantly. "He told me at the Valentine's Formal."

I paused for a moment.

_Jeff's braver than I thought._

"Are...are you in love with him?" I asked timidly, even though I was pretty sure I knew the answer to that one.

Kurt eyed me disdainfully. "Obviously not," he told me firmly.

I nodded.

"I'm glad," I managed to force that out with a soft laugh.

"Me, too," replied Kurt fervently as he brushed off the invisible lint from his bright blue shirt.

"And I'm sorry," I reminded him again. "I promise you that this will never happen again—you'll always get your choice, Kurt."

Kurt's eyes met mine, and for a few seconds he smiled directly at me. "I'd like that."

_Shit, Blaine_.

_What do you want _now_, internal monologue?_

_ Now you're never winning him over._

_ What do you mean?_

_ "You'll always get your choice, Kurt."? Now you'll never be able to walk up to him and honestly say you want to be his boyfri—_

_ Shut up. Keeping it platonic, here._

_ "_So are we good?" I inquired, standing up from my seat and walking around the table to pull Kurt's chair out for him.

"We're good," Kurt affirmed as he got up from his seat and wrapped his arms around me in one of those brief, friendly hugs that he seemed to like giving so much. I managed to hug him back, squeezing his shoulder gently and inhaling the smell of his perfume.

That day, he smelled like fresh lemon and pomegranates.

* * *

"Statue of Liberty," announced Wes at the front of the bus, pointing to the huge bright blue-green figure of a woman in the middle of a lot of murky water with the glossy handle of his gavel.

"Are we actually going in?" Kurt asked, his fingertips making foggy imprints on the glassy bus window.

Wes shook his head. "No, we're actually headed for Times Square right now. We just thought it would be nice for the Warblers to get a load of Lady Liberty."

"Nice," I said sincerely from the seat next to Kurt. From my side, Kurt nodded enthusiastically and set his hand down casually by my knee.

Kurt Hummel and I were legitimate friends again, and it took a lot to not jump out of the bus window cabbage-patching or something. But that wasn't dapper, Blaine-like, or gentlemanly, so I held in my cabbage-patching intentions.

I turned to face him, and then realized that he was holding his iPhone up to his ear. Oh. Someone had called him.

"Hello, Kurt Hummel speaking," Kurt said into the phone tiredly. I could tell that he was fearing for the worst—that being a call from one Rachel Berry.

He listened for a moment, and then his shoulders seemed to relax. "It's Brittany," he mouthed to me. Kurt looked thrilled at the prospect of it not being Rachel Berry on the other line, and gave me a quick, joyous high-five before returning his attentions to Brittany.

"Hey, Brit," Kurt was saying into the phone. He motioned for me to lean over and listen in as well. "Blaine's here, do you want to talk to him? Yes, that Blaine. Okay, he's listening in as we speak."

I could hear Brittany Pierce's soft—albeit garbled through the speakers of Kurt's phone—voice, and instantly perked up. She was so innocently promiscuous that it was disturbing, and her insight on Kurt's topsy-turvy life was highly amusing.

In light of Kurt's newfound success as a Dalton Warbler, most of New Directions had split into two groups: namely a pro-Kurt regime led by Mercedes and its anti-Kurt counterpart headed by Rachel and her on-again, off-again boyfriend, Finn Hudson. Not that Rachel was ever too intense with her disregard for the Warblers; she was just "blinded by jealousy", as Kurt said. As for Finn? Kurt had told me it was just a case of overprotective brotherhood. Finn was not only following Rachel's overly arrogant lead, but was also just looking out for Kurt's safety. Apparently a road trip to New York with a bunch of males ("Dude, it's totally like one of those harem things we learned about in history last year," he had told Kurt in one of his frantic phone calls) made him antsy.

"Do you really have a solo for Nationals, Kurt?" Brittany was asking Kurt excitedly. I could practically see her vacant eyes dancing with enthusiasm.

"Yes," Kurt replied, his nose scrunching up a little bit in pride. "The song's a secret, though."

"That's hot," Brittany mumbled vapidly.

"Don't want to leak the set list, the song's too amazing to be copied," I explained to her, making sure my voice was clear as possible. The rumbling of the bus wheels beneath us was probably making the sound quality even worse.

There was a loud worried whooshing noise on the other end of the call. "Is it because of the time I leaked the set list for Sectionals last year? Kurt, I promise you, I am so sorr—"

Kurt chuckled. "Calm down, Brit, it's fine. We just want to surprise the audience with our stellar song selection. I can tell you that I'm singing a ballad, though."

"It's beautiful," I added in hastily.

Brittany breathed out a sigh of relief. "Oh, good. Only, now I'm scared for you."

Kurt's eyebrows furrowed and I exchanged confused glances with him.

"Why, Brittany?" I asked her, leaning a little bit closer into the phone, and therefore a little bit closer to Kurt. Kurt didn't seem to mind, though; in fact, he reciprocated, shifting his position so that his hand was pressed against my chest. I tried to ignore it.

"I'm scared like I was scared during Sectionals. During me and Mike Chang's Valerie dance," Brittany said, obliviously ignoring my question.

"Why, honey?" Kurt inquired, moving his palm from my chest to my knee because the armrest wasn't pulled down.

"I'm scared because you don't have a magic comb, or an Artie to tell you that you're magic," Brittany explained importantly.

"Yeah," Kurt said wryly. "But I do have a—"

Brittany interrupted him. "Blaine. You have a Blaine."

Kurt instantly blushed a bright scarlet. I could see the pink color shoot straight up his ears and into his hairline.

I laughed. "He does have a Blaine," I agreed.

"How do you spell Blaine? B-L-A-Y-N?" she rambled on inquisitively.

"B-L-A-I-N-E," Kurt and I corrected in perfect tandem.

Her voice dropped so low that I could barely hear her. "Blaine," she whispered conspiratorially, "Are you a dolphin?"

Kurt snorted loudly.

"What?"

"Are you a boy dolphin that likes other boy dolphins?" she questioned, her voice sharper this time.

Kurt's lips brushed against my ear and he murmured, "She's asking you if you're gay." A shudder traveled from my ear through my entire body.

"Ah, yes," I told her, wondering if the huge grin I had plastered on my face would get translated over a phone line. It wasn't.

"Good," Brittany replied brightly. "Because Kurt really, really—"

And suddenly, I could hear distant cries of _Brittany get off of that phone or I'm going to personally behead each and every single member of your adoptive gummy bear family._ "Sue Sylvester," Kurt muttered to me in explanation.

"Oh, sorry, Coach!" Brittany suddenly exclaimed. "I have to get off the phone now. Bye, Kurt! Bye, B-L-A-N-E!"

As Kurt dropped the call, I reveled in Brittany's apparent inability to spell the word "Blaine" correctly.

"I like Brittany," I offered weakly as Kurt pocketed the iPhone and leaned against my shoulder contentedly.

"I do, too," said Kurt, his hair splayed out against the headrest, stuck to the fabric by static electricity.

"I'm glad you dated her and not Santana," I said, with a teasing nudge to his shoulder. He hit me back on the temple playfully.

"That was a one-time occurrence!"

"Didn't stop you from becoming her favorite 'dolphin' in the end."

"I'm everyone's favorite dolphin."

"What am I, chopped liver?"

"That's exactly what you are."

"Damn. Caught in the act."

* * *

_April 17, 2011, 11:30 A.M., a New York City Starbucks_

_Dear Journal—_

_ I'm not exactly sure what all of that was—I mean, Blaine's always been protective of me, but that conversation that we had was just weird. It's addressed a few pink elephants, and maybe kind of improved my relationship with him. Maybe he sees me as more of an equal now, and not so much as that poor abused gay kid._

_ Maybe he likes me._

_ I'm standing in line at Starbucks now with Matt. The dude's strange. He's always dancing, even when it seems that he's standing perfectly still._

—_Kurt_

_

* * *

_

"I see things have been resolved with Kurt, Anderson," Jeff was saying as he pushed his way through the throng of Warblers in order to walk right next to me. Kurt was off with Matt, picking up a few coffees for everyone at the nearest Starbucks.

"It was all just a big misunderstanding," I said with a palpable finality. "And no, you aren't going to make me change my mind. The issue has been resolved."

Jeff's pace slowed down for a little bit, and he ran a hand through his hair.

"Still friends?" he asked conversationally as I stared at a random guy on the street who was busying himself with getting his shoe unstuck from a piece of abandoned gum on the sidewalk.

"Still friends," I affirmed, not without a tinge of regret in my voice.

Jeff looked immensely relieved at that tidbit of information, and almost instantly heaved a giant sigh of relief. My eyes narrowed at him and I shook my head firmly.

_That doesn't mean anything else, Jeff._

"I think I'm going to sing a song for Kurt," Jeff said. "During the sing-off at dinner tonight."

Oh. The sing-off at dinner.

Wes and David had decided to expand the horizons of the Warblers by including a nightly sing-off every day of the stay in New York, excluding the first. They had explained their logic with the argument that we'd all be too tired and too pissy on the first day in New York to actually want to put any good music down on the board to present to the rest of the Warblers.

We had taken the news with grace, though. Actually, the majority of us were thrilled. Sharing music was something that we all enjoyed, especially when the acts were good. When they weren't...

...well, things just got remarkably awkward, point-blank.

I always made sure that I had one or two songs ready to perform on the dime, but I wasn't too keen on doing any of the sing-offs. My songs, excluding the Warbler-driven numbers like "Teenage Dream" or "Bills, Bills, Bills", were too plain and run-of-the-mill. Nothing too entertaining or snazzy. Nothing that would really impress Kurt—I was pretty unimpressive, really, without the rest of the Warblers backing me up.

And I was pretty sure Jeff's songs weren't going to be that intrinsically mind-blowing, either. He was mainly an minimalistic, acoustic type, but everyone agreed that he lacked the proper breath support to pull of the earthy vibe he was going for, which was why he had failed at getting a performance solo seven times straight.

Case in point? His performances resembled that of a dying mule.

"That's nice," I said, not unkindly. "Though, if you don't mind me asking..."

Jeff turned to me. "Hm?"

"What song are you planning on singing?"

"Just a little something by one of modern country music's greats," said Jeff proudly as he adjusted the zipper on his paneled jacket.

I raised my eyebrows at him in suspicion. "What the hell are you planning on doing with your six-string, Jeff Simon?"

"Actually..." His voice trailed off. "I was thinking of doing some Taylor Swift."

Not that there's anything wrong with Taylor—I find her endearing and sweet—but Kurt wasn't a fan of her down-to-earth style. He liked show and spectacle.

For example, Lady GaGa.

I can't put into words how thrilled I was that Jeff was doing Taylor Swift.

My nose crinkled in feigned distaste. "Taylor Swift? Are you sure that's a good idea, Jeff?"

Jeff's own nose crinkled up in response. "I'm not even going to question your statement, Blaine. Taylor Swift is adorable."

"Yeah, adorable, but not exactly the most practical artist to be performing in order to impress someone."

"Are you an idiot? All of her songs express some form of love or another."

My jaw dropped.

Jeff seemed to ignore me as I told him, "You do know that Kurt's not a Taylor Swift fan, right?"

"I guess I'll have to change his mind, then," Jeff said boldly and brazenly as Kurt walked up from behind us, bearing a carton of steaming coffee and a few paper bags of cranberry-orange scones.

"Thanks, Kurt. You're the best," I told him gratefully as I gingerly extracted a coffee cup from the carton, careful not to spill anything on Kurt's prized shirt.

"Thank you for saving McQueen," Kurt quipped, wiping the leaking side of a cup with a recycled-paper napkin.

Jeff took a scone, too, and promptly began snacking on it. I noticed that he didn't have his man-purse filled with Subway sandwiches and Wheat Thins with him anymore. Instead, he had opted for a nearly-empty, saggy rucksack.

Bummer for him.

"Thanks, Kurt," Jeff said with an easy smile. Kurt's returned smile was more of a grimace, which was something I noted with exaltation and many hallelujahs.

Mentally, of course.

"Jeff and I were just talking about the sing-off tonight," I said to Kurt as I civilly sipped at my coffee cup. Kurt had memorized the way each Warbler liked their coffee—it was amazing.

When I had asked him about his weird knack for remembering Starbucks orders, he had responded with a nonchalant, "I used to work there as a barista. They kicked me out when they found out my real age, but to this day they still attest to the fact that I was their most talented barista."

So that was how I ended up with the perfect soy latte.

Also how Jeff was happily sucking away at the green straw of his cold frappuccino.

"What about the sing-off?" Kurt asked, passing the carton of coffee to an eager Wes, who immediately pocketed his gavel and began to pass the coffee out to the masses.

"Just what we're going to be singing," Jeff butted in after noisily swallowing a bite of scone.

"Oh?" said Kurt.

"Yeah, well, I mean, I'm going to be singing," Jeff corrected as he continued to molest his poor scone.

"Have a one-hundred-percent recycled napkin," I told Jeff, passing him one. Kurt looked relieved as Jeff patted away the mess he had made on his cheeks.

"What are you going to be singing?" Kurt asked once the look of nausea had passed from his face completely.

"It's a secret," said Jeff.

"Do we have to sing?" came Matt's voice as he strode up to us purposefully, his Pumas squeaking along the pavement . We all had to come to a stop, anyway, as we had hit a busy street.

"What do you mean?" Jeff questioned him sharply.

"I don't really sing," Matt explained. "Well, I sing back-up. But nothing too intense. I mainly dance."

Kurt rolled his eyes. "As we are well aware from your breakout of the stanky leg during the St. Patty's Day Bonanza."

Matt protested, "I'll have you know that my specific dance expertise is focused around—"

"Jazz?" Jeff guessed.

"Ballroom," I corrected. Matt nodded eagerly.

Kurt's forehead wrinkled. "How are you going to dance ballroom without a partner?"

Matt shrugged nonchalantly. "Already covered."

We all turned to him in confusion, and then hurried across the street after noticing that the little brightly-lit white walking man had appeared on the light-up street sign.

"Who?"

"I've done a duet by myself, but this is just ridiculous..." Kurt murmured to me, his hand brushing against mine. I held on to it with a brief but victorious smirk at Jeff, who responded with a vaguely envious look appearing on his face.

I felt a surge of victory.

"Santana said it was like vocal masturbation," Kurt quietly added with a little bit of a wink. I blanched instantly.

"I'm doing an interpretive dance number with Nick," Matt explained patiently. "It's really innovative and boundary-pushing, don't you think?"

I exchanged a dark glance with Kurt as Jeff brushed bits of dried cranberry and scone crumbs from his lips. Kurt simply shrugged and whipped out a tube of Chapstick, applying it as Jeff hungrily grabbed another paper bag, this time with a blueberry muffin inside.

"Very boundary-pushing," Kurt agreed dryly, recapping the Chapstick and sliding it back into his leather purse. "You kind of remind me of someone from my old Glee club."

Silence reigned while we all padded through the streets of New York. Kurt rarely brought up the New Directions in front of the Warblers, excluding me, of course. Since I had known him before he enrolled at Dalton, I guess I had special privileges. It was great, but it was also a big responsibility—Kurt was so much more sensitive than he let on. And I hated seeing him unhappy,

After a while, Jeff messily folded up the paper wrapping of his long-gone blueberry muffin and asked, "Who, Kurt?"

Kurt sniffed in that attractively pompous way of his. "Mike Chang."

Mike Chang? _That_ Mike Chang?

"Which Mike Chang?" I inquired. "The dancing one who wears Converse high-tops all the time?"

He nodded slowly. "You know Mike?"

I shrugged. "Kind of. My mom volunteers at the Asian group that meets at Ohio State University—she's Filipino. She met Mike's mom during the Moon Festival hopia dice game."

Kurt raised an eyebrow. "You're Asian?"

"Half. My dad is totally Irish, and that's where I get most of my genes from, apparently."

Matt clapped his hands together eagerly. "Irish? I used to Irish dance."

"Like Riverdance?" Jeff asked dully. "Hey, Kurt, do you have any hand sanitizer?"

Matt let out an exaggerated sigh. "If only I had a dollar for every time someone asked me that..."

Kurt shook his head and turned to me so that his soft hair brushed against my ear delicately. "Do you have any hand sanitizer?" he murmured.

"Oh!" I exclaimed, hands diving into my bag and pulling out a small tube of Germ-X. "Sure. Here you go, Jeff."

Jeff scowled. "No thanks, Anderson."

"Dude, what?" Matt asked. "You just asked Kurt for some—"

"Never mind, my hands aren't sticky anymore."

Kurt looked bewildered, and I was pretty sure that I was looking pretty pissed.

"Well," I began stiffly, turning my cell phone over and over in my hands as Kurt began to survey the stores and shops that surrounded us. "Where to next?"

Matt coughed and then said, "We could go shopping, I guess. Wes said we had two hours before rehearsal, and besides, he wouldn't know, regardless. He's lost his gavel and he's absolutely distraught."

All four of us let out loud, simultaneous laughs. We all knew how much Wes adored the feeling of power that his gavel gave him.

"I'd like to go shopping," Kurt offered bluntly, raising his hand just a little bit.

I grinned at him. "I knew you would."

Kurt rolled his eyes at me playfully. "We're in New York. What else are we supposed to do?"

Frowning, Jeff turned to me and mumbled, "I don't really like shopping."

Kurt shot him a playful smile and snatched Jeff's rucksack from his relaxed arms.

"You're coming with us," Kurt threatened, holding up the bag in demonstration. "Because I have your very important, very expensive bag. I think."

Jeff groaned, and Matt stood there, awe-struck.

"You didn't," Matt gasped, even though Kurt's thievery really didn't affect him.

"I did," said Kurt breezily, shouldering Jeff's rucksack, grabbing my hand, and running through the traffic-ridden street in the direction of Barney's.

* * *

**A/N: Two more days till "Silly Love Songs". The spoilers for it are AMAZING and HORRENDOUS at the same time. I don't know if I can handle the pressure! :S Read! Review! Story Alert! Author Alert! Favorite! Reviews = happy Paundromat.**


	6. Sidelines

**WELCOME TO THE BRIGHT LIGHTS CH.6: "SIDELINES"**

**READ ME****: Well, we made it to Chapter 6 of this story! WOOOO! And in commemoration of this beautiful event, I'd recommend checking out my Livejournal. I'm launching my very OWN GLEE!VERSE!**

**GAVEL!VERSE.**

**paundromat . livejournal . com**

**Take out the spaces, and there you go. I've included a little...synopsis, should I say, of this fic. And have you checked out my latest oneshot, ****A Hair Nightmare****, yet?**

**DISCLAIMER****: I don't own Glee. If I did, I probably would not be able to face the critical scrutiny. And I would die. But not before taking Darren Criss from Ryan Murphy. Roaaar. By the way, heard those rumors about Blaine's bisexuality lately? What is this?**

**

* * *

**

Running through traffic in New York, I found, was a remarkably intense experience, especially since I was doing so with Kurt. Because he had his figurative coattails flapping on behind him as he pushed through the madness of the honking cars with a strange kind of grace, and he weaved through cars expertly, biting his lip in concentration.

"Kurt!" I wheezed once we finally make it to the gilded doors of Barneys New York. Kurt had his little triumphant grin on and and he immediately flipped his hair out of his face, shooting me a look that just screamed _success_.

He brushed his hands against his sweater thoughtfully and then took to examining Jeff's bag. "Where's everyone else?"

I gave him a disparaging glance. "They're on the other side of the freaking New York City traffic, Kurt," I said dryly, clutching at my stomach in order to keep myself from dry heaving. The folds of my jacket kept me anchored on the ground—I was pretty sure that I had accidentally left my spleen or something on the other side of the road.

Kurt shivered a little bit. "What a rush!" he exclaimed, shouldering Jeff's rucksack and yanking the heavy door open.

Snazzy piano music erupted from the doorway and I grimaced, guiding Kurt's hand with my own and closing the door.

"We're waiting for them, aren't we?" I asked, crossing my arms expectantly. "You've got Jeff's bag."

Kurt sniffed. "It's empty. And they're not coming."

I pointed at the other side of the road, where Matt and Jeff were standing with confounded expressions plastered on their faces. The brightness of the sun was making them squint, so they also looked a little bit constipated.

Matt turned to look at Jeff, who looked from Kurt to his pilfered bag with a frown on his face.

Matt mouthed something like _We'll just be off now_ and pointed in the direction of the music store that some of the other Warblers were congregating at. I could already pick out Wes' stiff black hair as well as Nick's shaggy brown from the crowd.

Kurt smirked as Jeff opened his mouth as if to say something and Matt leaned over and shushed him, wheeling him over to the music store forcefully. Every now and then Jeff would struggle, but although Matt was thin and lanky, he was certainly strong enough to keep Jeff at bay.

I felt a slight vibration in my pants pocket.

_From: Matt Kominski _

_takin jeff to get ready for sing-off tonight. meet warblers at auditorium by 2 for rehearsal. don't forget to bring jeff's bag—he needs that._

Kurt leaned over my shoulder as I read the text message (not really that big of a feat, since I'm shorter than him), laughing a little bit at Matt's impeccable reasoning.

After that, he continued to rest his chin on my shoulder so that we were standing on the sidewalk as people bustled past us, his eyes looking up expectantly into mine. I shivered a little bit and opened the door calmly, ushering him to go inside.

"Into Barneys you go, Kurt," I said as he strode inside confidently, his head tilted upwards proudly. He entered high-fashion stores like they were home—it was brilliant to watch.

"So what are we looking for?" Kurt asked, running his hand along the pleated skirt of the first mannequin we pass by. A saleslady shook out her platinum-blond bob as she got a look at us and smiled graciously, sidestepping in order to get out of our way.

"Welcome to Barneys, may I help you?" the saleslady inquired graciously, her palms pressed together firmly.

Kurt smiled and replied, "No, just looking, thanks."

We walked in silence for a while, taking in the influx of designer brands as well as we could. Kurt's eyes brightened immediately once he saw the Marc Jacobs display, and he reached out to feel the smooth leather of one of the shoes there.

He nudged me. "I don't have any money."

I shrugged. "Neither do I. I mean, I have my dad's credit card, but that's strictly for emergency use only."

Money was a funny thing with Kurt. He never seemed to have that much on hand, choosing to invest it all on clothes and accessories instead. His clothes were always spot-on and well-made, even though not all of them were exactly _designer_. But designer clothing seemed to dominate his exceedingly large closet and I always wondered where exactly all of that cash came from. His father's salary?

Mr. Hummel was an auto technician. He probably had sacrificed so much for Kurt.

"Pity," Kurt breathed, lacing his fingers through mine and swinging our arms back and forth like a pendulum.

I tried to ignore it.

"The cut on that is amazing," I said, pointing to an eggplant-colored peacoat with an exaggerated collar. Kurt nodded absentmindedly in agreement.

"That mannequin's really skinny," he commented.

"Needs to eat a sandwich," I agreed fervently.

"How do you think we're going to do at Nationals?" Kurt asked me quietly, in a hushed whisper. "Everyone thought that we were going to lose at Regionals. Everyone said that New Directions and Vocal Adrenaline were so much better."

I paused for a moment and thought that over.

"I think that our vocals really won over the judges," I told him reasonably. "Plus, we get brownie points since we're acapella."

Kurt barked out a harsh laugh. "We won because we're acapella?"

I smiled at that. "No, _dummy_. We won because we're _good._"

Kurt's expression instantly brightened. "Well, what can I say—we _are_ pretty fabulous." He giggled softly to himself.

I stopped walking for a moment.

"I wasn't kidding when I said you won us Regionals with those two lines of 'Bulletproof'," I told him earnestly.

"Well, I guess," Kurt said wryly, holding Jeff's bag up to his face. "And Jeff's bag _isn't_ totally hideous."

"No, I'm not even kidding!" I protested, snatching Jeff's bag from Kurt's hands. "Not even being sarcastic. This is sincerity at its finest."

"Jeff's bag is hideous," Kurt repeated smugly.

"I know. I think that holding this rucksack just upped my ranking on the gay scale by five points."

Kurt raised his brows and gave me a once-over, scanning my body from head to toe, eyes lingering for what a thought was a little bit longer on certain unmentionable parts.

"I don't know," he admitted reluctantly. "You kind of make it...work?"

I grimaced at the rucksack.

"Never mind," Kurt added in hastily. "Subject change?"

I laughed at that. "Lunch?" I suggested.

Kurt nodded firmly. "Lunch."

* * *

"Street food's supposed to be decent here," I told Kurt as he looked distastefully at the corn dog he had in his hands. He was holding on to the stick delicately with two fingers.

"It looks like a deep-fried penis," Kurt mumbled candidly, gingerly taking the little white paper cups filled with ketchup and mustard from me.

"But it's a _delicious_ deep-fried penis," I said solemnly, brandishing my own corn dog like a sword. "It's also great in instance where self-defense is needed."

Kurt stabbed at me with his corn dog. "You're a nerd," he accused.

I stabbed back. "You're a priss."

For a moment, we just stood there looking like fools, standing in an _en guarde_ position with our corn dogs jabbing at each other lamely.

"You're funny, Blaine Anderson," Kurt stated out-of-the-blue, pulling his corn dog back and dunking it into the ketchup.

I took a bite from my corn dog and grinned. "See, it tastes good!"

Kurt wrinkled his nose at me adorably and tried a little bit of his. "Yeah, it certainly doesn't _taste_ like penis."

My eyes widened at him.

_Oh, my God, Blaine. Kurt's not serious, is he?_

Kurt's own eyes multiplied in size rapidly.

"N-not that I've ever...uh...it was obviously a joke!" he sputtered out awkwardly.

I cracked up laughing, nearly dropping my corn dog in amusement. Kurt looked so totally and completely _forlornly embarrassed_ that his cheeks turned bright red and his lips pursed up like he had just swallowed a lemon whole.

Funny image, really.

"You're adorable sometimes, do you know that?" I asked him breezily, eating some more of the corn dog. I sat down on the bench that was on the edge of the sidewalk and patted the space next to me pointedly. "Sit."

Kurt thankfully obeyed, crossing his legs after he sat down, foot jiggling a little bit as he worked at finishing the corn dog.

I tried so hard to ignore the little flashes of pink tongue that appeared in between every bite.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Kurt wondered aloud, drumming his fingers on the metal armrest.

I looked up from my corn dog. "Hm?"

"I don't get you sometimes, you know?" He reached over to dip the bitten end of his corn dog into my ketchup.

"Hey, you double-dipped," I complained playfully. Kurt rolled his eyes at me.

"No germs here, I brush my teeth obsessively," he said.

Oh.

I got serious again. "What do you mean?"

Kurt looked glum for a moment. "Can I...be honest?" he asked quietly.

I nodded, "Sure."

"I don't understand what we are," Kurt admitted. "Ever since Valentine's day, I never really understood what you meant—"

"I don't really think _I_ understood what I meant either," I interrupted.

"Shush," he scolded. "You acted like a petulant child during the Valentine's Formal—"

"Jeff was all over you like a—!"

"And then things are cool and St. Patrick's Day passes with a little solo Irish dance from Matt and now we're _here_ and you manipulate the list—"

"Can we _please_ not talk about the stupid list?"

Kurt hit my shoulder softly. "What I mean to say is...I don't really get _what_ exactly we are, you know?"

"What do you mean?" I said again, feigning stupidity even though I was pretty sure I had a grasp on what he was getting at.

Kurt's eyes saw right through that, and he gave me a disdainful look.

"I mean..." I began timidly. "You're my best friend, Kurt."

He shook his head curtly. "No, _David_ is your best friend. And _Mercedes_ is mine."

I stared at him. My corn dog was perched in my hands and being twirled around in my fingers, uneaten. I felt like throwing up, or doing something equally revolting.

_You're on delicate ground, Blaine. Easy does it._

"I suppose I could admit to..._mildly_ not-very-platonic feelings about you," I mumbled.

Kurt gave me what I thought was a smile. My palms were sweaty and I dragged them along my pants in order to try to get them dry again.

"Mildly, though," I added in quickly.

"Just _mildly_?"

"Semi-mildly, then!" I said in exasperation.

Kurt took a moment to chew at his corn dog thoughtfully.

"I think I know where you're coming from," he said decisively. "I've had

feelings like that before, too."

I stared at him in disbelief. "For me?"

He nodded. "For you."

So then it was definitely _my_ turn to be asking questions.

"Then...what are we?"

Kurt let out a brief chuckle. "I say that we're two _very_ confused gay men who need to keep things straight in order to stay in the competitive spirit of Nationals. No pun intended. I think."

"What?"

"What I'm saying," Kurt told me ruefully, "is that I really, really _like_ you, Blaine. But we can't do this. Not right now."

I felt my heart sink instantaneously.

"Why not?" I reached over and held his hand demonstratively, as if to say _look, holding hands is easy for us—want to give it a go?_

"We've got Nationals in three freaking days, Blaine," he articulated.

"Meaning?"

"We don't have time to lose our game faces because of our latent feelings for each other."

My mind seemed to process facts slower than Kurt's, but my heart was throbbing fast. I wondered if Kurt good hear it thumping against my ribcage.

I tossed those thoughts aside and asked him, "So you think that whatever _this_ is—these feelings, I mean—you think they have to wait until _after_ Nationals?"

Kurt gave me a small, rueful smile. "Logically."

I raised my eyebrows at him seriously. "Will you attempt to avoid Jeff's declarations of undying devotion? Because I like you a lot, Kurt, but I don't think I'm capable of singing you silly love songs like he is."

"Damn."

"Damn is right, Kurt. I'm not good at romance. And I'll say it again."

Kurt's bright blue eyes pierced through mine. "Say what, Blaine?"

"_Will you wait for me?_" I gritted out between clenched teeth. I felt like smacking something—Kurt was being such a _tease_. He wasn't making things easier. No. No, he was just making them even more nerve-wracking.

Instantly brightening, Kurt swung his legs to and fro in his seat and said, "Sure thing!" all happily and pleased-with-himself.

"This is embarrassing," I told him.

Kurt winked at me. "But it's fun."

* * *

_April 17, 2011, 5:00 P.M., The Hyatt_

_Dear Journal,_

_All this time, and our feelings are like this. And I don't know what to do, quite frankly. I don't have the balls to do anything, really. And that's why I put it on hold. And Blaine doesn't need any of this crap. Not right now, when Nationals is coming up so soon and Blaine's rooming with Jeff. When Jeff finds out, he'll have Blaine flayed...and I definitely don't want that._

_And ever since we've gotten to NYC, life's been a continuous rom-com. Not exactly sure how I feel about that, but whatever. Everyone's too stressed to care. Whenever I'm not practicing or hanging around Blaine, I'm going on coffee runs. Ever since recently, Blaine's been switching his coffee orders. He asked for a medium drip an hour ago._

_The sing-off is tonight, and I'm not sure if I'm going to be singing or not. I've always got a song or two on hand (just like Blaine), but for once I feel like I just want to sit back and watch someone else do their thing..._

—_Kurt_

_

* * *

_

"So what went on with Kurt during your little adventure?" Jeff asked me as I chucked his rucksack at him.

"Can we not talk about this? We _just_ had practice and I'm tired. I want to nap before the sing-off tonight," I replied tartly.

I was sprawled on my bed with the quilted comforter and blankets wrapped around my body tightly, dressed only in a pair of lose drawstring sweatpants and plain white t-shirt. Jeff was at the desk again, examining the contents of his food backpack.

Every time he stuck his hand into one of his pockets, some form of delicious snack would appear. I'd seen Fruit Gushers, Slim Jims, Oreos...

...not to mention an array of Girl Scout cookies.

When I had commented on the purple box of Samoas he had yanked out of the bag, he had merely shrugged dismissively and said something along the lines of, "They were in season and my neighbor's a Girl Scout."

The food backpack could fit an obscene amount of crap, I decided as Jeff proceeded to pull out an aluminum tin of Danish butter cookies and a jar of strawberry preserves.

"You're cranky today," Jeff observed as separated the two cookie parts of an Oreo and picked at the white, sugary frosting idly. "Is it because Wes didn't want to get off of his soapbox today?"

I shrugged, burying my face into my pillow. "I don't blame him. He's lost his gavel, so no one listens to him anymore."

Jeff grunted in agreement and pulled out a small bottle of Shamrock Farms' two-percent milk from his bag.

"Dude, what the hell?" I asked peevishly as I watched him pour some of the milk into a glass and dip the dismembered Oreo into it.

Jeff pulled the Oreo from the glass and stared at me. "What?"

I sat up straighter on the bed, feeling the thrush of the blankets as their position shifted. "Do you have, like, e_verything_ in there?"

He looked down into the backpack forlornly. "Everything but Wheat Thins," he sighed regretfully. "I should have never let you eat all of those."

"Can I have something from there?" I inquired. "I promise to not eat it all, like with the Wheat Thins."

Jeff's eyes narrowed at me suspiciously. "You swear?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye," I offered weakly.

"Well, then. Sure."

He tossed me a Ziploc bag that was filled to the brim with an assortment of Wheaties—sugar, blueberry, chocolate, cinnamon apple...

Of course I'd get the healthy option while Jeff pigged out on the Oreos and potato chips in the background.

I forced any complaints to the back of my mind and moodily chewed up some cinnamon Wheatie.

"So," I began. Crunch, crunch, Wheatie. I swallowed. "Do you know what you're singing tonight?"

"I worked it out with Matt," Jeff shrugged, avoiding the question as he gulped down a mouthful of milk.

I sighed. "That much I figured."

Jeff paused for a moment, and the only sound to be heard was the crunching of the Oreos and his milk slurping.

"So you're really not going to tell me what happened?" Jeff asked finally, rocking back in forth in his seat. For once, he's got his contacts out, and I can see the true dull brown colors of his eyes. He looks tired.

I straightened up and leaned my back against the headboard, popping another Wheatie into my mouth. "We're on hold," I said simply through a mouthful of enriched cereal product.

Jeff stopped in the process of eating his Oreos and brushed some of the dark crumbs from his chin. "I'm sorry, what?" he inquired testily, his fists clenching up at his sides.

"Kurt and I decided to come...come _clean_ about our.._feelings_ for one another. But we decided that it wasn't right. Not for right now," I told him reluctantly, poking at one of the Wheaties in the baggy forlornly.

"Does that mean that there's a future for you two?" Jeff questioned, twiddling his thumbs together thoughtfully. There's a few milk splatters on the glassy table, and they just sit there, unwiped.

"I don't know," I admitted. And I'm really honest this time, too. "I'd like for there to be."

Jeff grunted and stood up from his chair, brushing off the crumbs from his blue wash jeans and stepping into his burgundy slippers.

"I'm going to get ready for my performance tonight," he said, his voice all steely and fake-sounding. Jeff grabbed his acoustic guitar from the corner of the hotel room at stormed out to the left.

He was probably going to Matt's room. Poor, convoluted Matt. He had ended up in the middle of some pretty deep shit. And all Matt really wanted to do was dance.

Groaning, I flopped back onto my bed and pulled out my cell phone.

It started buzzing instantaneously.

_Kurt Hummel_, the illuminated screen said in between bouts of frenzied vibration.

"Hello?" I asked into the receiver. I reached over and grabbed my copy of _Hamlet_ from the side table, resting my phone on my shoulder.

"Hi, Blaine? Randy's started singing his church hymns."

I smiled to myself knowingly. "Oh," I said, scanning the pages of _Hamlet_ until I found the place I had left off at.

Kurt coughed a little bit and said, "Could I come over to your room, just for a little bit before the sing-off starts? I know Jeff left five minutes ago to practice with Nick and Matt, and I just want to do my homework."

A pause, and then, "And you're not performing, right? So I can just come over, be my chipper self, and do homework?"

I chuckled. "Sure, Kurt. We've got the better part of a half-hour. I'll walk you down."

* * *

_April 17, 2011, 6:30 P.M., The Hyatt_

_Dear Journal—_

_Well, surreptitiously writing to you in a hotel room with Blaine. No, not in that way, you pervert._

_The sing-off is in fifteen minutes, and Blaine's not batting an eyelash. He couldn't give a rip. And that's what I enjoy so much. There's been too much music drama surrounding the Warblers lately, and some quietude with Blaine is nice. He's just sitting there, reading _Hamlet_ and minding his own business._

_It's refreshing, because whenever I step out of my hotel room, I get random guys jumping out and pirouetting (Matt) or someone strumming on the strings of a guitar (Jeff). _

_Yup, things are definitely going to be looking up._

_Furthermore, I've had a few more words with Randy lately._

_They went something like this:_

_KURT: What do you pray for so much? _

_RANDY: Sorry, what?_

_KURT: You've always got something to pray for._

_RANDY: When there's nothing, I pray for salvation and forgiveness. When there's something, I pray for my sister._

_KURT: You have a sister?_

_RANDY: MoMo._

_KURT: Oh._

_RANDY: She's...different._

_KURT: How so?_

_RANDY: (ignoring me) My soul doth magnify the Loooord..._

—_Kurt_

_

* * *

_

**A/N**: **What does it all mean? And are you pumped for the sing-off? Drop me a review—they've been lovely so far and they make my day awesome! Also, no one's guessed Kurt's solo correctly yet. And no, it's not ANYTHING by Lady GaGa...**


	7. Referee

**WELCOME TO THE BRIGHT LIGHTS CH. 7: "REFEREE"**

**READ ME****: Well, thanks for sticking with me this far! I feel like "Welcome to the Bright Lights" is slowly losing its mojo—hit and review count has dropped dramatically—so I hope that this story is still considerably enjoyable. Is there anything I can improve upon? Thanks! (Also, BIOTA: Kind of excited, kind of reluctant...thoughts?)**

**Also, as a kind of side-note, I'm kind of in the process of looking for a beta. If anyone here's willing to be a beta reader for this little fic of mine, please leave me a review or a PM!**

**

* * *

**

Wes climbed onto the stage that stood at the end of the hotel ballroom and tapped at the microphone timidly.

"Test, one two, one two. Testing. Test, one two, one two."

Kurt nudged me with his elbow, arms crossed. "Look at Wes," he said smugly. "He's been depressed ever since he lost his gavel."

And Wes did look absolutely distraught.

That air of confidence that he always seemed to assume whenever he got in front of a crowd was absolutely gone. Wes' hair wasn't spiked up at all, either—rather, it just flopped down over his forehead depressingly in a style that was really reminiscent of Mike Chang's hairdo.

Wes' hands were curved around nothing in particular on instinct. There was usually a gavel around his fingers—now, there was quite literally _nothing there_ to keep him grounded.

Wes cleared his throat nervously. "H-hello, fellow Warblers, and welcome to the first Warblers' sing-off of this year's New York Nationals' trip..."

David stood up abruptly from the stool at the side of the stage and strode over to Wes, grabbing the microphone from him with one hand and facepalming with the other.

"Gooooood evening, Warblers!" David said, his face switching from

disdain to fabricated enthusiasm. Wes looked like he was on the verge of tears, and his shoulders were shaking as David clapped him on the back firmly.

David continued to thump Wes' back as he added, "Wes is going through some difficulties right now. What he _wants_ to say, though, is that we here at the Warblers Council want to thank Nick Vogt's family for allowing us to stay at the Hyatt"—here, many yelps and cheers were made and a grinning Nick Vogt turned to give Jeff a fist bump—"and the entirety of the Hyatt staff for letting us use their ballroom to hold this pseudo-singing competition designed to keep things...fresh as we prepare to go to Nationals."

Wes made a little whimper as another sob threatened to wrack his body. David nodded his head to Thad, who took Wes by the arm and escorted him offstage.

"What's up with _him_?"

I jumped in surprise and turned to whoever it was that was standing behind me.

"Oh, hi, Ricardo," I said, a breath whooshing out of my lungs before I could stop it.

Kurt cocked an eyebrow at Ricardo, who was dressed in his bellhop uniform—pressed slacks, burgundy top and cap, white kid gloves that were pilling at the fingertips. "Hi," Kurt said unceremoniously as he examined Ricardo.

Ricardo flashed a bright, wide smile to Kurt and bowed politely, hands clasped together firmly. "My apologies. I'm Ricardo, a bellhop here at the Hyatt. I met Blaine earlier when he was getting settled into his hotel room."

Kurt nodded in understanding.

"What brings you here?" I asked in confusion. "I thought this was Warblers-exclusive."

Ricardo shrugged his broad shoulders. "Hyatt regulations. There's always gotta be a staff member at public functions. You know, to make sure that someone's there if anyone needs anything."

"Why don't they have a manager or something here? Aren't you a bellhop?" Kurt inquired curiously.

A sudden screeching noise was emitted from the sound system as Thad and Randy toyed with the knobs and dials. All three of us cringed, and I tried to avoid clapping my hands to my ears.

"Not too many people coming in tonight," Ricardo explained. "And I'm the youngest bellhop here, so my boss kind of thought it'd be best for me to blend in with the Warblers until any opportunity to help arises."

I chuckled at that. "Well, looks like Thad's having a little bit of a hard time with the sound system."

Another ear drum-breaking high-frequency squeal tore through the air.

"Christ!" Ricardo yelped.

Kurt and I exchanged amused looks.

"You know how to work the sound system, Ricardo?" Kurt asked, toying with the collar of his emerald satin button-down.

"Kind of. I've never used the sound system in the ballroom, though."

Kurt bit his lip. "Oh?"

"I play guitar for a band," Ricardo admitted sheepishly. "So I kinda gotta know how to plug in amplifiers and stuff."

All three of us watched in amusement as a defeated David walked over to us, clenching his teeth in frustration. "Hey, man," he said to Ricardo. "You know how to fix a sound system?"

"I'll try," Ricardo offered. "Alright. Kurt, Blaine. I'll see you later."

He and David jogged over to where Thad and Randy were lamely poking at the speakers.

"Do you know what Jeff's singing?" Kurt asked, curling his arm around mine surreptitiously.

"Not really," I told him reluctantly. "It's supposed to be for you, though."

Kurt frowned in disapproval.

"I know Nick and Matt are dancing together though!" I added halfheartedly. "Interpretive, I hear."

Kurt giggled softly. He plopped himself down on one of the chairs that were scattered through the ballroom floor. "This entire program is so unorganized it's not even funny."

I wiggled my eyebrows at him. "Think you could do better, Mr. Hummel?"

Kurt scoffed at me. "I planned an entire frickin' wedding for my dad and Carole. I think I could handle a little Warbler sing-off."

That definitively Hummel arrogance and confidence. Amazing.

_Sexy, even._

There was another screech as Thad tapped at the stage microphone. Behind him was an entire host of various instruments—I could recognize the pale white-yellow wood of Jeff's guitar in the melee.

"We've sorted through some...technical difficulties," Thad said into the microphone, smoothing a stray piece of hair back into place.

"With the help of the bellhop Ricardo," David added hastily, pointing to Ricardo, who was standing by one of the enormous speaker triumphantly. David motioned for Ricardo to join them onstage, and when he did, Thad managed to push him onto the microphone.

"Hey, guys," Ricardo said, shooting a confused glance at David and Thad. "If you guys need any help tonight, I'll be here. I know you guys are acapella and don't normally need to plug in things for sound and stuff, so, yes. Come to me if you need help. And from what I hear, these routines are gonna be pretty elaborate."

Kurt stared at Ricardo, dazed by the lights flickering off of Ricardo's exceedingly gelled hair. I had opted to go gel-free that night. Had that been a good idea? My stomach looped itself into a tight knot as I looked at Kurt, analyzing every single one of his movements.

Ricardo stood by the microphone for five more seconds and closed with a, "Good luck to everyone performing tonight."

David reclaimed the microphone. "Okay, first up, Matt and Nick, performing an interpretive dance duet to the Ting Tings' _amazingly catchy_ song 'Shut Up And Let Me Go!'"

Kurt groaned. I gave him a questioning look and he explained, "I hate that song with a burning passion."

The first pounding beats filled the air.

"_Hey!"_

Kurt let out a long exasperated sigh as the rhythmic beats continued. Matt and Nick were entering the stage from opposite directions, looking ridiculous in their strange outfits.

"Unbuttoned collared shirts that reveal your naked torso?" Kurt murmured into my ear softly. "They're great. On Matt and Nick it's just disappointing."

I laughed at that. "I wouldn't be able to pull it off, either."

Kurt shook his head, wrapped his hand around mine. I felt the soft pad of his thumb rubbing circles into my palm. "I'm sure you could."

"_Shut up and let me go—_

_This hurts, I'll tell you so_

_For the last time you will kiss my lips_

_Now shut up and let me go._

_Your jeans were once so clean_

_I bet you've changed your wardrobe since we met..."_

Kurt buried his face into my shoulder when Matt and Nick started to gyrate about the stage in perfect synchronization. Matt was quick, sharp, and jerky as he performed pelvic thrusts, hip rolls, and various other forms of acrobatics. Nick was heavier on his feet and not as well-trained, and he just looked _downright awkward_ as Matt made an attempting at grinding.

"Is Matt gay?" Kurt asked into the fabric of my polo.

"Yes. No. Probably."

"What?"

I sighed. "Closeted, I think."

Kurt let out a small hum of agreement.

"_Now oh-so-easily you're over me_

_Gone is love_

_It's you that ought to be holding me—_

_I'm not containable_

_This turns up_

_it's not sustainable!"_

"Hey," Ricardo whispered, sliding onto the seat next to Kurt. "This is...wow."

Kurt nodded wordlessly. He had been sent into shock.

"Are they—?"

Matt wheeled around on his heel and promptly started jerking. Nick was spinning on the ground, looking like he was ready to stab himself multiple times in the eye.

Or quite possibly the nuts, I wouldn't know.

"_I ain't freakin'_

_I ain't fakin' this_

_I ain't freakin'_

_I ain't fakin' this_

_I ain't freakin'_

_I ain't fakin' this_

_Shut up and let me go_

_Hey!"_

Kurt pulled his head away from my shoulders, but kept his eyes closed shut. "Please tell me it's over soon, _pleeeease_ be over soon..."

I squeezed his hand reassuringly, which got us through most of the song without subjecting ourselves to a most unfortunate self-combustion.

Another verse went by and Kurt continued to look appalled. Ricardo seemed to be enjoying himself, though. He was thoughtfully tapping his foot on the ground in time with the thumping beats, and even clapped during the instrumentals.

"Almost done," I mumbled into Kurt's impossibly soft hair.

"_Oh...love, _

_hold...this._

_Hey!_

_Hey!_

_Shut up and let me go_

_This hurts, I told you so_

_For the last time you will kiss my lips_

_Now shut up and let me go_

_Hey!"_

Kurt and I clapped halfheartedly for Matt and Nick, who were frozen in their end pose. That being the two of them, back-to-back, with Matt's fingers tugging at his bottom lip suggestively and Nick's hand digging into his hair.

And while Matt looked absolutely thrilled as he panted from the exertion, Nick looked ready to strangle someone.

They took their bows and ran off stage, and the bluish-green lights flickered off.

"That was...wow," remarked Ricardo, scratching at a particularly stubborn chunk of extremely gelled hair.

"I'm not even sure if doing that's legal," Kurt said, sounding annoyed. "I mean, you go onstage and perform something by the Ting Tings and that's alright with Wes, but I go and sing 'Don't Cry For Me Argentina' and I'm accused of being overtheatrical?"

"_Kurt_—"

"They're not even wearing shirts, for Christ's sake!"

I opened my mouth to say something but Ricardo quickly shushed me. "David's onstage again."

"That was very, er, interesting...give it up for Nick and Matt!" David said. "I didn't even know moving like that's possible, man!"

Thad chuckled beside David and leaned into the microphone. "We're going to have Thomas Pierson singing next."

Ricardo shifted closer to Kurt. "Who?"

"The mousy little ginger," Kurt replied airily, jabbing a finger in Thomas' direction.

The lights dimmed again and Thomas came onstage, strumming a tiny guitar proudly and confidently as he began to sing some sort of ballad or another. I wasn't very interested in this—Thomas was still young and untrained, so he tended to strain his voice a lot. Kurt's eyebrows were arched throughout the opening lines of the song.

Ricardo turned in his seat.

"Blaine, someone's asking for you," he told me quietly, pointing to a rather disheveled-looking Jeff.

"Hey," Jeff said, bending down to meet me at eye level. "I need to talk to Kurt."

I gave him a steely look. "No," I replied flatly, ignoring Kurt's bewildered expression. "Listen to Tom sing his ballad and go onstage and perform yours. Simple as that. You don't need to talk to him."

Jeff flexed his fingers. "I think I do, Anderson."

"Of course you don't!" I hissed.

Kurt hit me on the shoulder. "I'll be _fine_, Blaine."

"Yeah, he'll be _fine_, Blaine," Jeff repeated.

Ricardo's eyes shifted from Kurt, to Jeff, to me. And then back again. "Who's this?"

"Jeff," Kurt said without looking at Ricardo.

Ricardo placed a warm hand on my shoulder. "Let him, Blaine."

Kurt's eyes bored into mine, and for a moment, I just sat there, listening to Thomas' song and the fierce drumming of my pulse.

I sighed. "Go."

Kurt's shoulders relaxed. "Was that so hard?"

"No," I admitted begrudgingly.

Jeff smiled at me. "Thanks, Anderson. We'll be back presently."

He took Kurt by the hand and led him out of the ballroom.

From beside me, Ricardo stood up. "Tempted to spy on them?"

I stretched my legs out in front of me. "You have _no_ idea."

* * *

"Well?" I demanded from my perch on the bathroom sink.

"Well _what?_" Ricardo snapped, not ceasing in his pacing from the first bathroom stall to the last.

I groaned in exasperation. "I sent you out there to _spy_ on them, Ricardo. Not to watch them and then keep it to yourself."

Ricardo stopped walking. He scratched and his neck. "What do you wanna know?"

"Everything."

_Everything and nothing. Hopefully everything that went on between Jeff and Kurt WAS nothing._

He cleared his throat and fixed the high collar of his uniform in the bathroom mirror. The light of the fluorescents was reflected by his overly shiny, gelled head.

"Well, Jeff took Kurt to one of the smaller meeting rooms—"

I bit my lip. "The ones used by visiting companies?"

"Would you let me finish?" Ricardo asked. "And yes, one of those meeting rooms. Anyway."

I grunted peaceably. "Proceed."

"He didn't shut the door all the way, so I kind of just peeked at them through the crack in the doorway. Kurt looked absolutely bewildered—I could tell that this Jeff guy kind of intimidates him—and Jeff looked so depressed that it was kind of heartbreaking to watch.

"So Kurt just kind of sat in one of those wheely chairs, doing that eyebrow of his. The arching of his eyebrows. And sometimes he'd adjust his bangs nervously, because the first two minutes in there were spent in absolute silence.

"And then Jeff was sitting in the chair across from Kurt, kind of twiddling his thumbs nervously. And he told Kurt that he thought he—meaning Kurt—was looking beautiful. And Kurt just stared at him like he had grown a third foot, or something.

"Kurt told him thank you and that he knew that he was at least somewhat attractive, so that really eased the tension in the air. And Jeff got out of his seat and stood next to Kurt, and said something like, 'I know how you feel about Blaine, and I know how _I_ feel about you—'"

I groaned, digging my fingers into my hair. "Oh, great."

"I'm almost done, here!" Ricardo exclaimed defensively. "So Kurt was like, 'Your point being?', and Jeff kind of shrugged and stood there for a while, and then told Kurt that he had decided to not sing to him at the sing-off, because that would just increase the hatred between you and him. And he didn't want to show off his feelings as one huge, showy spectacle. Jeff just wanted to give Kurt a better understanding of how _much_ he feels for him—Christ, Blaine, if you'd've seen the look on his face—so he told Kurt, and these are his words, not mine, 'I've decided to sing to you, here. Privately, I mean, where Blaine isn't around to order you around like a little kid. Because I _know_ you, Kurt, and I know that you hate how Blaine treats you sometimes.'

"Well, that just made Kurt look a little bit more pissed, and he folded his arms against his chest and told Jeff that sorry, Blaine's my best friend, thank-you-very-much. But then Jeff started _singing_—"

"Did he sing _well?_" I questioned dryly, pushing myself off of the marble bathroom counter.

Ricardo nodded solemnly.

_Damn_.

"What did he sing?"

He shrugged. "I couldn't recognize the song."

"Do you remember how it goes?"

Ricardo chewed on his lower lip thoughtfully.

I put my hands up. "It wasn't Taylor Swift?"

"Oh dear God, _no_."

"Do you remember it at all?" I asked stubbornly.

He hummed a part of the chorus and then added, "It kind of went like this:

_And I remember the time my balance was fine_

_and I was just walking on one fine wire_

_I remember the time my balance was fine_

_and I was just walking on one fine wire..."_

I concentrated. The tune was familiar.

"Do you recognize it?" Ricardo asked dubiously. "I mean, Jeff sounded better than that, honestly."

Shuddering, I turned to Ricardo and replied, "'One Fine Wire', by Colbie Caillat. Damn."

Ricardo's dark eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "Colbie? Yeesh."

"What happened after that?"

"Well, then Kurt seemed to be enjoying the song—Jeff really did well on the song, and he didn't even have his guitar with him—and afterwards he thanked Jeff kind of sheepishly and anxiously, and Jeff nodded excitedly and waited for Kurt's response—"

"Yeah?" I asked impatiently.

"Well, Jeff kind of tried to lean in for a kiss—"

"He didn't."

"Shut it, Blaine. Kurt evaded the kiss, so you haven't gotten anything to worry about. Jeff sort of retreated, looking all embarrassed. That is, until Kurt stood up from his seat and kissed him on the cheek—"

My posture stiffened on instinct.

"And he said that he appreciated the song. And Jeff tried to lean in again for an _actual_ kiss. And Kurt slapped his hand away and told him to not ruin the feeling of respect he had established between the two of them."

I could feel my heart rate quickening—_no_.

"Ricardo, please tell me you're a sick sucker for romance and that you made up the last two paragraphs of your little monologue to stir up some drama."

Ricardo shook his head solemnly.

"I gotta go," I said, washing my hands in the bathroom sink furiously and toweling them dry quickly.

"Wait, Blaine, don't do anything stupi—"

"Not going to, Ricardo," I told him airily, yanking the heavy door open and striding out.

* * *

_April 17, 2011, 9:00 P.M., The Warblers' Hyatt Sing-off_

_ Dear Journal,_

_ Jeff's song was really good, and I feel bad for not being able to reciprocate accordingly. Unfortunately, I'm a little tied up with my problems in Blaineland—I can't handle any more issues in Jeffworld._

_ And Jeff was so sweet. That is, until he tried to plant one on me. I suppose I can't blame him. He doesn't know about McKinley or about Karof...about _him_._

_ Oh, shit, that's Blaine. And he looks mad._

_ And Ricardo's following him looking all desperate—_

_ Holy fuck._

—_Kurt_

_

* * *

_

"Jeff Simon!" I barked from the entrance to the ballroom.

Jeff ran his fingers through his obscenely bright hair lazily. "Looking for me, Anderson?"

"Blaine!" Ricardo panted from behind. "Whatever you're thinking about doing, don't do it."

"Step aside, Rick," Jeff murmured.

Ricardo could have been shouting something at me angrily as I brought my hand back, but I wouldn't have noticed. Actually, he probably _did_ yell something at me.

Case in point?

Punching Jeff Simon in the face, _hard,_ was ridiculously refreshing.

"Mr. Goolsby—"

"Wes, what are you doing—?"

"Blaine's assaulting a fellow Warbler—"

"What the hell, man? Keep it to themselves. We can't have this fight—"

"It'll ruin our chance at Nationals—"

"He'll get suspended—"

_Suspension._

_

* * *

_

**A/N****: What the hell does that ending mean? Don't forget to review! They make my day, even the dinky short little ones. :) You guys inspire me to continue writing.**


	8. Melting Pot

**WELCOME TO THE BRIGHT LIGHTS CH. 8: "MELTING POT"**

**READ ME:**** Welcome to Chapter 8! I'd like to thank you for sticking with the story for so long. I appreciated the feedback from last chapter. And I think you guys'll like this one, but I don't know. Plus:**

**ARE YOU GUYS READY FOR BIOTA?**

**Also, damn, Ricardo. Damn you and your fine, bellhopping ass that's stealing the fangirls away from Klaine :o.**

**ALSO: TEN MORE REVIEWS TO ONE FREAKING HUNDRED! LET'S DO THIS! KLAINE WHORES UNITE! WOOOOO!**

**I should give the one-hundredth reviewer a cookie or something, I do theenk.**

**DISCLAIMER:**** *does not own Glee***

**

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**

"What the hell, man? What were you thinking?"

David's nostrils were flaring in time with every word that he said. I tried to count the flares, but gave up halfway through his sentence.

I shrugged wordlessly, resting my chin on the palm of my right hand and drumming my fingers of the left against the tabletop.

Jeff was on the other side of the room, cradling his head dejectedly. Wes had sent Ricardo out to grab some sort of ice pack—he had sprinted out of the ballroom and returned with an icy bag of frozen peas—to put on Jeff's eye. And now Kurt was sitting next to Jeff, holding the peas to his face and attempting to comfort the poor guy, who had just been punched to oblivion by me.

_Me._

"You assaulted another Warbler," Wes said pompously, momentarily forgetting his lost gavel. "We can't have such intense feelings of enmity hidden within our members. It throws the chemistry off balance and could possibly cost us Nationals. Do you know that, Blaine?"

Mr. Goolsby coughed into his forearm pointedly. "Mr. Anderson, did Jeff Simon do anything to provoke you? Or did you just stroll on in and hit the young man?"

David shot Mr. Goolsby a disparaging look, jerking his head in Jeff's direction. "Jeff didn't do anything _per se_, sir—"

Randy had sauntered over to where Jeff and Kurt were sitting. He had his rosary whipped out and he was praying as if it was going to change anything. Why was everyone making such a big deal over this? Jeff was far from mortally wounded—I had only hit him _once_, for God's sake—and I clearly realized that what I had done was wrong on _so_ many different levels. And anyone would be able to bet on the fact that I wasn't going to pull something like it again. Not after chaos had broken out and the sing-off had been abruptly concluded in the middle of Bryce Michaelson's performance.

"Tradition, _David_, discourages acts of violence between members of the Dalton Academy Warblers and frowns upon feelings of discontent or hatred between any two or more parties," Wes reminded him forcefully, banging his fist on the table in absence of his mahogany gavel.

Mr. Goolsby held up a hand to silence Wes. "Very good, Mr. Youngs, but completely irrelevant," Coughing a little bit, he continued, "Mr. Anderson, shall I remind you of my previous question? Did Jeff provoke you?"

I sighed. "Not particularly, Mr. Goolsby," I told him honestly. Might as well tell him the truth instead of hiding it. Hiding the truth had gotten me in a load of trouble recently, I realized.

"Then why did you punch him?"

The light flickered off of Mr. Goolsby's glasses, and for a moment, I swear I could have seen Kurt and Jeff's reflection in the lens. Jeff was looking just as distraught as ever, and Kurt was leaning over him, obviously trying to make him laugh. I turned my head to the side and saw that Ricardo was standing with Matt and Nick, looking too scared to try and help with my situation but too pro-Blaine to help Jeff.

Unfortunate fellow.

"Does it have anything to do with the Hummel incident from three days ago?"

I shrugged again and lowered my gaze.

David raised his hand timidly and then said, "I can vouch for Blaine that Jeff isn't totally innocent. Sure, he didn't _assault_ Blaine physically, but he's definitely been acting up around him lately."

Wes frowned. "I'm not sure that really does much in his favor, David. Blaine should be able to rein in his emotions."

"Enough, both of you!" Mr. Goolsby barked authoritatively. "Wesley, David. Please go and sit with Thaddeus for the time being."

The two of them bowed respectfully and walked over to where Thad was sitting, alone, picking out the tune to some song or another on one of the electric guitars that had littered the stage earlier.

"Now, rules say that you are in danger of suspension from the Warblers, Blaine."

I nodded wordlessly, cringing internally at his words.

"You know how important Nationals are to Dalton—we haven't won that title since 1973, when the Warblers performed a jaw-dropping rendition of an Earth, Wind, and Fire medley," Mr. Goolsby continued, primly lacing his fingers together and setting them on the table. "And although you're not on the Council, you're still one of the lead vocalists on our setlist, along with Mr. Hummel and Mr. Chapel."

"So you're not going to suspend me?" I asked slowly, catching Kurt giggling at something Jeff said in my peripheral vision.

Mr. Goolsby paused, took out his Blackberry, and tapped a few of the keys. He spent a few seconds fiddling with his phone, probably looking up Warbler regulations on his Dalton Academy app.

Thad has developed it. The Dalton Academy app, I mean. He spent one day over the summer holed up in his grandmother's house, researching program codes and eventually figuring out how to put apps on the market. He had made the Dalton app available on Blackberry, Droid, and iPhone, and Goolsby had been thrilled about it. Now every Warbler with a smartphone had gotten it installed.

He shook his head. "No, I can't suspend you. Not with Nationals in two days. But there's got to be some sort of punishment, Blaine."

"Sir? Jeff would like to be sent upstairs now," Kurt announced, having just walked on over to where we had been sitting and discussing methods of atonement.

_Don't be so melodramatic._

Mr. Goolsby waved his hand at Kurt offhandedly. "Yes, yes. Send the bellhop with Jeff to make sure he gets up okay."

"The bellhop's name is Ricardo," I corrected. "And I didn't punch him—Jeff, mind you—_that_ hard. It's only going to swell a little bit, and the bruising probably won't even be that severe."

Standing up, Mr. Goolsby clapped his hand to my knee and pocketed his Blackberry. "Mr. Anderson, we'll have to switch your roommate around. I'm not letting you stay with Jeff after this incident."

"Okay," I said reluctantly. Kurt crossed his arms over his chest and dragged a hand through his bangs pensively.

"And you'll be given seven hours of Saturday detention when we get back to Westerville."

"Sure, sure."

"And if you'd keep interaction with Mr. Simon to a minimum, that would be good, too."

"Alright, Mr. Goolsby."

"And the Council is reassigning you a roommate."

"Fine."

_Go on, take everything away from me_, my internal monologue rattled on dramatically.

"Good," Mr. Goolsby said, turning around in his seat. "Wes, if you'd continue with the festivities?"

* * *

"It's really funny how we're put together as roommates after all that crap that went on," Kurt said stiffly from the desk in his hotel room. Randy was gruffly shuffling about, packing up all of his rosaries and packets of holy water in a special wooden case.

After the sing-off had been concluded an hour ago, Wes, Thad, and David had congregated in the boys' bathroom to discuss where I'd be placed. David had taken pity on me, and had managed to convince Thad and Wes that I should room with Kurt instead of Jeff. And Ricardo had crashed their secret meeting and let slip that Jeff attempted to "sexually harass" Kurt—I later congratulated him on his superb use of hyperbolic exaggeration—while alone in a meeting room, so logically, Wes had to keep Jeff away from Kurt.

Mr. Goolsby was skeptical at first, but tall tales of Jeff's attempted molestation made him agree with David. So Thad had approached me, telling me to go up to Kurt's room and inform him of their decision, as well as to tell Randy to start packing up.

In an attempt to keep me isolated from Jeff for as long as possible, Mr. Goolsby had sent Ricardo up to Jeff's room to collect all of my belongings, since I never did fully unpack. Randy was going to be moving in with Jeff.

Randy seemed fine with it, though. I guess he kind of got weirded out by Kurt's blatant, aggressive policy of atheism.

"Funny, huh?" I told him wryly as Randy struggled to stuff a ceramic angel figurine into his knapsack.

Kurt wrinkled his nose and ignored me. "Do you need any help putting away the incense, Randy?"

Randy shook his head slowly. "I got it. Don't worry, it's not real incense."

"How does that work?"

"Sort of like a reed diffuser, only not."

I sat there on Randy's bed, legs crossed, reveling in the irony of the situation.

"I think I'm done," Randy said finally, zipping his luggage up tight and propping it up against the wall. "What's the time?"

"It's gotta be close to midniiiiight," Kurt sang softly.

I checked my watch. "No, seriously, it's like 11:30 already."

Randy looped his hand through the handle of his suitcase and wheeled it to the door. "I'll just leave you to your own devices, then."

Kurt scowled. "We're not going to be in here making gay babies, Randy. For the record, I'm _mad_ at Blaine."

He put a hand up at Kurt. "Subtlety, Hummel, is your best friend." And promptly crossed himself. "_En nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti..."_

I turned to Kurt in protest. "You can't be mad at me!"

Randy shook his head ruefully and opened the hotel room door with a loud _creak_ and slid himself through, closing it softly. I listened to the fading sounds of his suitcase wheels rolling against the carpet.

Kurt chewed on his bottom lip thoughtfully. "I'm still mad, no matter what you plan on telling me."

"Why's that? Jeff tried to kiss you—_twice_."

"I'm not even going to ask you _how_ you know about that," Kurt said flatly, dragging a brush through his hair to loosen the hold of his hairspray.

"You want the truth?" I inquired. I stood up and crossed the room to get to my luggage, and pulled out a loose pair of sweatpants and a ragged gray t-shirt that had "DALTON SWIM TEAM" emblazoned on the front in bright scarlet lettering.

Kurt shot me his best "bitch, please" sort of look.

"I asked Ricardo to spy on you," I admitted, calmly unbuttoning my collared shirt and pulling on the t-shirt.

He stood there for a bit, staring at me. "Seriously?"

I nodded solemnly, stepping out of my trousers and into the sweatpants. "Seriously."

"I was worried about what he was going to do in there," I added hastily, plopping myself down onto the double bed.

"Are you _kidding_ me, Blaine? This is _exactly_ what Jeff was warning me about! Your weird possessive habits!"

"Excuse me, I'm not the one who's attempting to _kiss_ you after the Karofsky incident!"

"Don't bring up Dave Karofsky!" Kurt snapped, slamming his hairbrush onto the side table forcefully and rounding about the beds until he was next to mine.

I stood up abruptly. "What, so you were okay with him just going in and _kissing_ you? I thought you told me that you were going to try hard to avoid things like that!"

"I did, you dumbass!" Kurt was yelling, making wild and crazy motions with his hands. "I pushed him away when he tried to!"

"I know, but Jeff's a forceful guy—did you expect me to just sit around and _not_ know if he was going to try and take advantage of you?"

Kurt's gaze was steely as his eyes bored into mine. "You're supposed to trust me, Blaine."

"You're supposed to trust me, _too_. You're supposed to trust me when I tell you that Jeff Simon isn't exactly the person that you're supposed to frolic around with, kissing cheeks and icing with bags of frozen peas!"

"Oh, is that it?" Kurt demanded furiously, jabbing his finger into my chest. "You know what, Blaine Anderson? You're jealous. You're jealous without a reason to be. I told you to keep the feelings in the closet until after Nationals—just _two_ fucking days, Blaine!"

I rolled my eyes. "Don't act like you're so _innocent_, you've been leading Jeff and I on since day one!"

"Don't tell _me_ that I lead people on! Am I supposed to pretend that 'Teenage Dream' and 'Hey, Soul Sister' and 'Baby, It's Cold Outside' and 'Silly Love Songs' were just platonic serenades intended to be interpreted as _friendly_ gestures? Oh my God, Blaine, the song's about freaking _date rape_!"

"Only one of them's about that! And you almost _did_ get raped!" I shouted.

"_Did not_! Jeff was just trying to kiss me! And I refused to let him!"

"But you wanted to, didn't you, because his little Colbie Caillat song was ridiculously adora—"

And I found that I couldn't exactly speak, because Kurt's lips had collided with mine and were now moving against them in a very soft, very surprisingly sultry way.

My eyes flew open in shock, and Kurt seemed to register my discomfort, because he rested his hands firmly on the small of my back delicately. And since I wasn't exactly sure what to do, I settled on planting my hands on the back of his neck and up into his hair, breathing in the smell of his perfume and his shampoo—citrusy and floral at the same time. And when I figured that having my fingers intertwined with his hair would get uncomfortable, I switched to cupping his face with my hands, reveling in the smoothness of his skin and wanting _more_.

We stayed like that for a while. Kissing. Breathing each other in.

I realized that my own pounding heartbeat was starting to slow so that it beat in time with Kurt's: ba_-bum, _ba_-bum, _ba_-bum._

Kurt's breathing slowed, too, and if he was trying to ignore the discomfort and just _feel_ the kiss in slow motion, slowly moving his hands up so they were locked in a tight embrace around my torso. And every so often, he would pull away _just slightly_ to let out little gasps for air.

"What are you doing?" I whispered, finally pulling back and staring right into his eyes, my hands pressed up against his chest. "I thought you said no outward displays of nonplatonic affection until end of Nationals."

Kurt frowned. "Not really sure what that was," he admitted bluntly.

I groaned. "Are we going to have to pretend that that never happened, either?"

He shook his head sadly. "I don't think we can."

"We can't let anyone know."

"Oh?" he asked, leaning into my shoulder thoughtfully. "Especially not Jeff, I guess."

"And Wes. And David. And Thad. And Mr. Goolsby," I reminded him.

Kurt let out a throaty hum that reverberated down to my arm.

"Kurt? I appreciate the gesture, but could you please—"

"Oh, sorry, Blaine." Kurt was blushing roses now, grinning so widely that two little indented dimples appeared on both of his cheeks. He pulled himself away from me, and I instantly regretted it. The feel of his body's curvature against mine had been comforting.

"Well," I began, seating myself on my bed awkwardly. "I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to do at this point."

Kurt giggled softly to himself and stretched out on his own bed. "Tha–that wasn't too bad, was it?"

My posture stiffened. "Of _course_ not, Kurt. It was, er, lovely. Just sort of unexpected. I mean, you were kind of yelling at me..."

"I know."

"It was scary at first, you know? Like, 'Oh my God, he's probably just kissing me so that he can get close enough to stab me or something.' You know, like in _Ella Enchanted_?"

"Pffffff, irrelevant." Kurt threw a pillow at me.

"Good one, you just threw a throw pillow at me—MMPH." Kurt had thrown another.

"Do I get another one?" Kurt asked slyly.

"Another what? Another chance to chuck various fluffy objects at my face?"

"Another kiss, I mean."

I shook my head. "Kurt, you're sending me mixed signals and I'm freaking confused right now. And it's late. And, like I've said before..." I pointed to myself lamely. "Bad at romance."

Kurt pouted. "Later, then."

Silence reigned for a few minutes.

"Hey, Kurt," I told him calmly. "C'mere."

Kurt arched an eyebrow. "Hm?"

I patted the space next to me. "Come here," I repeated.

He crawled out of his bed, the material of his cotton pajamas scrunching up at the knees and elbows, and slid onto the spot next to me.

"Why?" Kurt murmured as I wrapped my arms around his torso.

"No reason. Go to sleep."

He yawned. "M'kay..."

"Good night, Kurt," I murmured into the softness of the pillow, feeling warmth radiate from his body to mine.

* * *

_April 18, 2011, 10:00 A.M., A hotel room in the Hyatt, New York City_

_ Dear Journal,_

_ I woke up with Blaine snoring softly into my ear and I nearly jumped twenty feet high into the air. So I really did kiss him last night. Hm._

_ Is it a crime to say that it was amazing, even if Blaine was shell-shocked and rendered partially unresponsive by our largely ironic and cliche angst kiss? I don't know. It's definitely a crime against Jeff._

_ Jeff, who had been assaulted by Blaine, because of me._

_ I can't believe we actually had an anger-kiss. I didn't know those even existed._

_ And it would be stupid to ask him for a relationship. Blaine's in enough trouble as is._

—_Kurt_

_

* * *

_

"Is Wesley still in mourning for the loss of his gavel?" Ricardo asked me, expertly wiping off chunks of Fruit Loops and granola from the marble countertop of the Hyatt breakfast buffet with a damp washcloth.

I nodded, shoveling Cinnamon Toast Crunch and raisins into a bowl thoughtfully. "Why does your boss make you do everything here? You're like...a bellhop, a supervisor, _and_ a janitor. In one."

Ricardo shrugged, dumping the dirty cereal into a black plastic bag. "I'd like to think of myself as one of those characters in a rom-com that does everything. Like Ramon in _The Proposal_, minus the bachelorette-stripper part."

I gave him a once-over as well as a look of absolute horror.

"You did not just relate yourself to a character from _The Proposal_."

Mopping at the countertop with his rag, Ricardo winked. "Sitka, Alaska, baby."

"I do wonder where the hell that gavel went, though," I mused, adding a few sausage patties to my breakfast plate.

Ricardo scratched the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. "You know, I could tell the Hyatt staff to keep an eye out for the gavel, if you want."

I raised a brow at him. "Would you?"

"Sure, I mean, it's just a gavel, right? What's it look like?"

I closed the steaming tureen of bacon. "Um, just mahogany. Engraved handle. It's got Chinese lettering on the edge."

"Chinese?" Ricardo asked, as if he was unsure if he had heard me correctly.

I nodded emphatically. "Chinese. Matt was practicing his calligraphy, and Wes decided to let him try his hand at writing his name on the gavel. Wes is Chinese, I mean."

Ricardo let out a dry laugh. "Asian persuasion."

"Asian persuasion," I agreed. "Matt's got a bit of an Asian fetish, honestly. Hey, I got to go eat breakfast—I'll see you around, okay?"

But Ricardo was already distracted, speaking rapidly into his cellphone:

"_Good morning, Hyatt staff, this is bellhop Ricardo reporting a missing gavel..."_

_

* * *

_

_April 18, 2011, 5:00 P.M., Hamilton High School Auditorium, New York City _

_ Dear Journal,_

_ Blaine's been avoiding me all day, and during practice, when his solo bridges into mine, he doesn't even try to make it flow. I know our voices aren't similar, and that's what makes merging different songs so difficult—Blaine's just been making it harder._

_ And it's creeping in again, this feeling of loneliness..._

_ ...was it all a mistake? I shouldn't have kissed him—that much I'm sure about._

_ It felt too good, though. Putting it all on the line and living vicariously for once. Taking charge of my own life instead of letting idiots run it over like big-footed buffoons._

_ Because being alone sucks._

_ Being alone after being a part of something special for the longest time sucks even more._

—_Kurt_

_

* * *

_

"What happened between you and Kurt last night? You're kind of down in the dumps today," David remarked, idly doodling the Dalton logo on a pad of paper. "And I thought the problems had been resolved already."

"Kind of," I told him. "I guess it's just nerves. Nationals in a day, and all."

"C'mon, man, you're hiding something."

I took a sip of my coffee—a medium-drip—and grimaced. "Trust me, it's nothing worth telling, anyway. It'd get me in even more trouble."

"You've been ignoring Kurt all day." David dipped his chocolate-walnut biscotti into his coffee. "Don't fool yourself, alright? Everyone's noticed—you two are usually joined at the hip."

I laughed. "Not particularly."

David snorted offhandedly. "Actually, uh, yes. You are."

"Package deal?"

"Package deal," David affirmed. "If you guys were merchandise, you'd share the same blister pack."

David, Wes, Thad, and I had congregated in the open lounge in the lobby of the Hyatt, accompanied by piles of Dalton homework and numerous caffeinated beverages.

Thad chortled into his iced tea. "This trip has been doing wonders for your relationship with Hummel, Blaine."

I shot him the evil eye. "Well stated, Meyers."

"He's yelled at you like, what, three times in the past few days?"

David counted the times on his fingers. "One, two, three, four...no, man, more like _four_."

"Will you both shut up?" I snapped, jabbing my thumb over to Wes. "Look at Wes, he's rendered catatonic by his lack of gavel and all you guys can talk about is my relationship with Kurt!"

Wes moaned and sank in his seat. "Don't remind me."

Thad rubbed circles in Wes' back soothingly. "Try not to overthink it, dear Wesley."

I flipped a page in my copy of _Hamlet_ calmly and began to annotate the Melting Flesh soliloquy diligently with one of the pens provided by the Hyatt. Wes slumped forward and continued to outline his U.S. History essay, shakily creating a flow chart in bright red and navy ink.

That's Dalton pride for you.

"Is everything you own Dalton-related?" Thad asked, gesturing to the flowchart in awe.

Wes nodded wordlessly, drumming his customized Cross pen against the table. Thad took it from him and examined the shiny navy lacquer and the bright red metal tips. "Dalton colors."

"Hey," Matt said, dropping a canary yellow Chinese-English dictionary on the table tiredly and fanning himself with a sheaf of wrinkled paper.

David nodded at Matt. "What's up, Matteusz?"

Matt narrowed his eyes at David. "Don't call me that, David."

My phone started buzzing. _Kurt Hummel_, the illuminated screen said, with a picture of Kurt's face appearing. Winking. Kurt had been winking when I took the shot.

_From: Kurt Hummel_

_ Are we okay?_

I stared at the text for so long that Thad started to stab at my shoulder with the back of his highlighter.

"Blaine, answer the fucking text," Matt deadpanned, writing something down in his notebook in swift, precise Chinese characters. "It's Kurt, isn't it?"

"Calm the ego, man," David objected. "It might not be Kurt."

"Yeah," I lied, smoothly covering the bright screen with the palm of my hand. "It's my mother."

Wes cocked his head to the side. "Mrs. Anderson? Mrs. _Evangeline Anderson_?"

Matt mumbled something to Wes in rapid, exasperated Chinese.

David frowned at Matt disapprovingly. "Dude, really? Can you guys speak in English, please?"

Smirking, Matt shook his head. "What's the point in learning Chinese if I can't use it?"

"Excuse me," I interrupted unceremoniously. "Wes, you freaked out when I started speaking in Tagalog to my mother."

"Irrelevant," Wes murmured, popping a honey pretzel twist into his mouth. "Chinese is badass."

I surreptitiously exchanged a fist bump with Matt. "Good job on making him forget about the gavel."

"By the way," said Thad, "Never converse in rapid Tagalog with your mother again, Blaine."

"Why? I think it sounds really cool!"

"Cool, but kind of scary. Admittedly not as frightening as Matt when he gets intense about his Chinese—"

Wes blew a raspberry offhandedly. "Please, Matt sounds like an airplane voiceover. Please store your luggage in the overhead bins or in the seat in front of you, and all of that."

"I'm proud of that," Matt admitted confidently, sticking his nose into the air for emphasis.

I shooed all of them away from my phone.

_To: Kurt Hummel_

_ Yes and no. I'm sorry about what happened last night._

When I looked up, everyone was busy with their work, or at least pretending to be.

I had given up on interacting with Kurt Hummel.

Because my feelings for him were too strong.

Because my self control was weak.

Because Kurt always approached me in those times of weakness.

Because Jeff was always there.

Because Jeff made me lose control.

And I always ended up hitting something or another out of anger and frustration.

_From: Kurt Hummel_

_ It's my fault, I shouldn't have pulled something like that on you._

_ To: Kurt Hummel_

_ Hey, hey, now. I thought we've established that the romantic feelings are mutual._

I raised my gaze. Everyone was still at their studies. Not spying on me. Great. I leaned back down again over my phone when I felt it vibrate again.

_From: Kurt Hummel_

_ :) See you. I have to go—laundry duty calls._

_ To: Kurt Hummel_

_ Laundry?_

_ From: Kurt Hummel_

_ These Dalton regulation slacks aren't going to press themselves._

_

* * *

_

_April 19, 2011, 8:00 A.M., The Hyatt, New York City_

_Dear Journal,_

_That's totally Ricardo._

_That's totally Ricardo with Wes' gavel._

—_Kurt_

_

* * *

_

**A/N:**** omfg, Ricardo has the gavel. Ready for the story of how he found it? And we've got a day till Nationals—how do you think the Warblers are going to deal? **

**Furthermore: this story's going to end in about two or three more chapters. To sequel or not to sequel? Note that the sequel would probably revolve around Blaine's college life, Kurt's last year at Dalton, and more gavel-ly nonsense. Drop a review and tell me if you like the idea.**


	9. Lighters

**WELCOME TO THE BRIGHT LIGHTS CH.9: "LIGHTERS"**

**READ ME****: So, yaaaaay, another chapter is uploaded! This was was randomly exceedingly difficult to write for no reason whatsoever, so I hope you guys'll like it! I've been appreciating the feedback (and by the way, we TOTALLY broke 100 reviews! YAY! Let's shoot for more in the chapters to come!). And Ricardo didn't steal the gavel. He just...found it in a sketchy sort of way.**

** Also, sorry I had to reupload this chapter! I realized that I forgot to include a scene in this. -_-'**

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_April 19, 2011, 8:05 A.M., The Hyatt, New York City_

_ Dear Journal,_

_ So, I realize that I just wrote in you, like, five minutes ago, telling you about how I saw Ricardo with Wes' gavel two and a half hours ago, but this is more important._

_ Because at 6:05 A.M. I went downstairs to request for some more towelettes for my face._

_ And then I saw Ricardo with the gavel and, like any other dedicated Warbler would, approached him, asking him why the hell he would have the gavel._

_ Ricardo told me that it was top-secret Blaine-business, and that if I valued my life, I'd keep the whole thing a secret._

_ Utter shit, really._

_ RICARDO: Please don't tell Blaine._

_ ME: Why wouldn't I tell Blaine? Or Wes, for that matter?_

_RICARDO: Look, I'm giving the gavel back to Wes tomorrow, okay? Blaine asked me to find it as a favor, but the story behind me finding the gavel is kind of sketchy, and I need to tell it to Blaine, face-to-face._

_ME: ...you performed an act of sexual slavery, didn't you? _

_RICARDO: ...sorry, what? Look, it's not anything like that..._

_ME: Don't run away from me, Ricardo, you sold yourself as a sex slave...!_

_RICARDO: Kurt, much as I'd hate to do this, I know what's going on between you and Blaine._

_ME: ...how much do you kno—_

_RICARDO: Enough that if I let slip to Mr. Goolsby and Jeff, you'd both be put under suspension. And Jeff would probably figure out a way to have Blaine flayed._

_ME: ...agreed._

—_Kurt_

_

* * *

_

Kurt's breath hitched as he scurried into our hotel room and shut the door behind him.

I rolled over in the sheets and rubbed my eyes blearily. "Kurt? S'early, what are you doing awake?" Despite my fatigue, I managed to prop my torso up on the headboard. The curls of my hair had flattened in slumber and were now pushed against the left side of my face in a way that was probably amazingly attractive. Not.

"Needed to request more washcloths," Kurt squeaked offhandedly.

I shot a funny look at him. "Uh-huh...?"

"For my face."

"Presumably."

I felt over to the bedside table and grabbed my glasses, shoving them onto my face so that I could at least see a little bit clearer.

Kurt looked absolutely frazzled, even though he was already dressed immaculately in perfect ensemble: tight khakis and a bright, loosely-fitted purple sweater that cuffed at the wrist. He had donned patent leather Oxfords and was standing by the television, chest heaving and hip jutting out to the side, arms crossed tightly.

I hauled myself off of the bed and ran a hand through my hair tiredly. "Are you okay? You look like you just saw a ghost or something," I said.

"Nothing. It's nothing," Kurt hedged stolidly, walking over to his bed and sitting down pointedly. "Nothing at all."

I sighed. "Alright, then."

Kurt turned his head to face me. "I didn't see you last night."

I rubbed the back of my neck sheepishly. "I was working late on one of the computers in the lobby. Apparently I had a _Hamlet_ essay due yesterday that had to be submitted to Mr. Tomlinson via email. I totally forgot about it."

"I was asleep by the time you got in."

I nodded emphatically. "You looked awfully peaceful."

Kurt smiled ruefully to himself. "So can we talk now?"

"I think so. If you want to, that is."

"Blaine," Kurt said matter-of-factly, "It should be obvious by now that I always have something to talk about with you."

It was hard to ignore the emotion behind those few words. And when my eyes looked up to meet Kurt's, I found those bright blue orbs shooting straight through me like bullets or lasers.

I barked out an empty laugh. "That's true on so many different levels. It's not even funny." I wound my way across the room until I came to a stop at Kurt's bedside, plopping myself down next to him unceremoniously and slipping my hand in his. "Care to begin?"

Leaning against my shoulder comfortingly, Kurt took a pause before murmuring, "I don't really know how to begin, truthfully."

I wrapped my arm around Kurt's waist and pulled him in closer, reveling in the warmth of his body and the softness of his cashmere sweater. My hands glided across it as if they were skimming across water, and the same distinctly Hummel fragrance filled the air. Fresh lemon and pomegranate.

"You always say you're bad at romance," Kurt mused, shifting his cheek so that it rested on the sharp angle of my shoulder. "But then you do things like this and I start to severely question your logic and reasoning skills."

"I'm not good at romance," I admitted, feeling the blood drain out of my face when Kurt started rubbing circles onto my palm. "Look at this. I've screwed so many things up already. And I walked into this whole friendship thing not wanting to mess this up."

"Why?"

I shrugged. "You're too important, Kurt."

A brief chuckle, and then, "You're too important, as well, Blaine Anderson."

"I was miserable when you went to the Valentine's Formal with Jeff," I whispered brokenly into his hair.

"Why didn't you ask me first? I thought you were revolted by the idea of ever engaging in a romantic relationship with me."

I was sure that Kurt could hear the pounding of my heart, because I could hardly hear what he was saying over the loud beats in my ear. And my hands were all clammy and shaky and sweaty, and I looked an absolute mess, what with my ragged pajamas and dark, limp curls plastered this way and that on my face.

"Never."

"We've got such a dysfunctional relationship."

"It's a dysfunctional relationship that we've got to keep under wraps, unless we want Mr. Goolsby, Wes, and Jeff freaking out and having us flayed," I said seriously.

"Don't think I can help it at this point," Kurt admitted in a small voice.

"I don't think I can, either. I like you a lot, Kurt."

"And I've been in love with you since I bumped into you on the spiral staircase when I went all 'endearing spy' on Dalton Academy last November."

A thousand electrical shocks ran and coursed along my backbone, and my mind struggled to wrap around that revelation. Kurt was in love with me? It was love, he said. Not 'like'. Not 'adore', or something much more superficial than that. He had hinted at romantic feelings, but never at any so powerful as something like _love_. Love was a minefield, and Kurt stepped carefully and daintily avoided its traps.

But here he was, nuzzling his cheek into my shoulder, being _affectionate for God's sake_, telling me he was in love with me!

Kurt seemed to register my shock because he immediately clapped his hands together loudly and exclaimed, "This is outstanding!"

I straightened my posture. "Shh, people are still asleep. It's like six o'clock in the morning, and all of the other Warblers are completely exhausted from all of that rehearsing yesterday."

"I'm noticing that ever since I admitted my true feelings for you five seconds, the awkward level has shot up tremendously," Kurt noted sardonically.

"Stop it, Kurt," I replied flatly, pulling him impossibly closer and tightening the grip I had around his waist. "This sweater is ridiculously soft, by the way."

Kurt rolled his eyes at me. "Please tell me that's not the reason you're being excessively cuddly this morning."

"Guilty," I said, teasingly ruffling his hair.

"You're an underhanded bastard."

"But I'm _your_ underhanded bastard."

Kurt scoffed. "Irrelevant, Anderson. Although, your cuddles do seem to make a great heater. So I probably should invest in more cashmere for the winter months in lieu of purchasing an actual space heater. Just so you'll cuddle me more."

"I might have to wear pajamas all day if they make you so open to being cuddled," I responded quickly. "It's so entertaining."

"You look much better in ragged pajamas than I do. Trust me, Blaine. And I've been offered modeling deals for Pajama Grams and Snuggies."

I shot him a disparaging look. "Doubt it."

"Picture me in a sheep-patterned fleece onesie, Blaine. I dare you."

I imagined Kurt in one of those thick, fluffy pajama sets, jumping on a bed excitedly, hair all messy and playful. Absolute glee on his face. The little sheep on his onesie shifting and moving along the fabric with every push off of the mattress.

Adorable.

"That's...ridiculous!" I sputtered, making nonsensical gestures with my hands.

Kurt shrugged. "Suit yourself, Blaine."

"Besides, you'd rather be caught dead than in one of those fleece onesie things."

"They're remarkably comfortable," Kurt said dryly.

We sat there in silence as I worked on getting all of the images of Kurt in a onesie out of my head. Kurt's hands managed to snake up around my waist and onto my shoulders, climbing higher until his cool palms were pressed up against my flushed cheeks.

"Do I have to ask you for a second kiss?" Kurt murmured into the skin of my neck, the vibrations of his voice sending chills throughout my body. "Or can I just go for it?"

I laughed. "Let me think about it, first."

I felt Kurt's the corners of Kurt's lips turning down in a pout, pressed up against my collar bone, and gently lifted his chin up.

"I am obviously joking," I added hastily, making sure to look him straight in the eye. "You don't have to ask me for anything like that, Kurt."

Kurt looked relieved. "Oh. That's nice," he breathed.

"Although yesterday's liplock was a little bit too angsty and dramatic for my liking."

His wide eyes were bright and hypnotic. "You think so?"

"And I was wondering..." I stopped to press my lips against his cheek softly. "...what it would be like if we stopped fighting for once and managed to actually feel something a little bit less superficial than...how do you put it...?"

"Anger-passion?" Kurt suggested innocently.

"Anger-passion, definitely."

"I must say that I like the idea."

I leaned forward and pressed my lips to Kurt's, feeling their softness give way as he moved against me, clutching my shoulders in a tight embrace. Locked together with no beginning or end.

"This is different," Kurt whispered against my mouth, taking a breath before continuing in his attentions. "This is really different."

"It's nice, though," I replied quietly, lazily tracing the contours of his cheek with my left hand. "It's really nice."

And the kiss just got more and more heated, really, until we had to break apart, chests heaving. Kurt's eyes were shut tight when we finally parted, and he was muttering something to himself rapidly under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, "Think of the mail! The mail!".

"Sorry, what?" I asked, planting short little kisses along the side of his jaw.

"Nothing! Nothing!"

I was about to press the matter further, but Kurt interrupted my thought train with another kiss, leaning into my chest as he moved his lips against mine sweetly, clutching at the fabric of my t-shirt tightly so that I could feel his balled-up fists against my chest.

"I have to take a shower," I said weakly.

"Boo," Kurt growled, prying himself off of me and wrapping his arms around his torso.

"Listen, go downstairs for breakfast. I'll meet you there." I gave his cheek a brief peck. "Alright? Eat a waffle for me. You haven't eaten that much since we got here."

"Haven't been hungry," Kurt mumbled.

I laughed. "Go downstairs, okay?"

Kurt reluctantly stood up and dragged himself to the door. "Careful with the hair gel, Blaine. Size of a dime, okay?"

"Will do, Hummel."

* * *

It was hard to not be amused when I exited the doors of the elevator and saw Kurt moodily chomping on a Belgian waffle piled high with blueberries and whipped cream at the breakfast buffet.

I was about to take long strides to his table when David approached me, a parcel wrapped in brown paper tucked underneath his arm.

"Hey, man!" he called brightly, jogging up to me. "Listen, can we talk?"

"Uh, sure, David." My eyes trailed down from his eyes, coming to a rest at the package. "What's with the box?"

David let out a long, airy breath. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about."

"Hm?"

"It's for Wes."

I raised an eyebrow at him and cocked my head to the side in confusion. "Wes?"

"Well, you know how he's been all depressed lately?" David asked, shifting the box so that he held it with both hands.

"Due to his lack of gavel, yeah."

"Well," David began, proudly placing the box into my hands. "I just got back from SoHo."

I stared at him blankly. "You don't mean you..."

David's mouth spread in an eerily wide grin. "Yup. I got him a new gavel." He patted the parcel. "Mahogany and brass, baby!"

"No way!" I gently tugged at the hemp string that held the brown paper in placed and pulled out the gavel, eye widening as I examined shininess of the brass detailing, the expertly cut curve of the wood handle. Mahogany, indeed. "This must have cost you a fortune, man."

He smiled ruefully. "Just a small one. It was just really hard to see my boy all worked up about a chunk of shiny wood like that, you know?"

I nodded wordlessly, turning the new gavel over and over in my hands.

"And his hand was getting all bruised because he kept hitting things in order to get people to shut up. You know, since he didn't have the gavel, and whatever," David added with a frown, taking the gavel from my hands and delicately wrapping it in the paper again.

"It's a really nice gesture, I think, David."

"I thought it'd make a nice congratulatory 'we-got-into-Nationals' gift for Wesley. Planning to give it to him tomorrow in the Green Room."

I clapped him on the back soundly. "Well, good for you, man. Hey, listen, I got to get to breakfast—"

David's eyebrows wiggled playfully. "Meeting one Kurt Hummel, are we?"

I lowered my gaze so that I was staring down at my shoes. "Kind of. Maybe."

"Things are getting better with him, I take?" David's eyes were more serious now, as if he actually expected a proper answer. As if he was actually in favor of Kurt and I getting together as a real couple.

"Fantastic, actually," I admitted quietly, offhandedly examining the vibrantly green plastic leaves of a nearby potted plant.

"I hear the word 'fantastic', Blaine!" came the voice of a particularly jubilant Ricardo, who was hauling along a gilded luggage cart piled high with a full set of shimmery gray Tumis. "How are things? Oh, David, could you hit the elevator button for me? Thanks, man."

David quickly pressed his index finger to the button with an up arrow inscribed on it and chortled to himself. "Just asking him about how things with Kurt are doing. Loitering by the elevator. The usual."

"Good _morning_, Ricardo," I said in an attempt to distract him from the Kurt drama.

"Hey, Blaine!" he replied brightly, sighing when the elevator dinged and the doors opened to reveal a full compartment with no room for his luggage cart. "Hit the button for me again, would you?"

This time I lunged forward to hit the 'up' button with my thumb.

"Anyway, Blaine, so get this," Ricardo began, picking a luggage sticker from the side of his cart. "You know that favor you asked of me?"

David's forehead wrinkled. "Favor? What favor?"

"Yeah, I know what you're talking about," I said, smoothly ignoring David's incredulity.

The elevator doors opened. An empty compartment.

"Oh, perfect chance!" Ricardo cried, happily pumping a gloved fist into the air. "Listen, I'll talk to you about it later, Blaine. The matter's not insanely pressing."

He pushed the cart inside, forcing it to fit the small elevator, and waved at David and I as the doors slid smoothly shut.

"What was that all about?" David asked, fingering the twine that was wrapped around the gavel package.

"Ricardo's probably the most cryptic homosexual I've ever laid my eyes upon," I remarked curtly, dismissing David's question.

* * *

Thad clapped his hands together soundly. "I was thinking we could do a Nationals warm-up with an impromptu performance," he said into one of the choral microphones.

We had gathered in our usual rehearsal spot, the auditorium of Hamilton High School. Everyone was swaying to and fro in their respective spots on the risers, and Thad had jumped at the brief lull in activity to pitch his idea.

Wes blew a raspberry. "Impromptu performance of what? And why? And most importantly..."

"Where?" Matt asked flatly, leaning against the riser's black, shiny railing.

"Where else?" Thad asked, as if it were the most obvious question in the world.

David laughed loudly, stepping off of his spot at the topmost riser. "You don't mean...?"

Thad hit David on the forearm with his black chorus book. "You heard it right, Warblers. Grand Central Station. It's the flashmob Mecca, and it could definitely give us a competitive edge for tomorrow. Like Kurt's always trying to tell us...it'll keep us_ loose._"

Thad's pigheadedness had really diminished over the months that had passed since Valentine's Day. It seemed like only yesterday he was standing up at the Council desk, crying, "You mock us, sir!" in that pompous way of his.

Kurt sniffed on the riser right behind me. "It makes sense, actually. Random flashmobbing at Grand Central Station always attract the most attention. They end up on Youtube. It could quite possibly mean that we'd become a viral hit—"

I interrupted him, "Which would guarantee us a spot as one of the favorites for Nationals, assuming that the video goes online by two o'clock this afternoon."

Wes placed his hands on his hips delicately. "And what, pray, were you hoping to perform, Thad?"

Thad tapped at the cover of the black binder demonstratively. "We do have, like, twenty-five other prepared vocal arrangements that we aren't using for Nationals, Wesley," he reminded.

"Preparation is key, Thad!" Wes cried defensively.

"I like the idea," Jeff remarked gruffly from his perch on the lowest riser. I tried not to meet his eyes when I turned my head in his direction reflexively.

Tossing the binder to Wes, Thad grinned widely. "This is the perfect chance for us to break in the New York air with a performance. This generation of Warblers has never performed out-of-state, so we might as well give it a shot before performing in front of thousands."

"Shouldn't be too difficult to throw something together," Matt remarked lazily, stretching his legs out on the railing. "We've done it before. Think we should be in uniform?"

Wes thought that over for a moment, and then said, "This is going to sound crazy, but...no."

Chaos broke out in the form of hushed, excited whispers.

"Things are really changing around here," David murmured to himself dubiously.

"It'll be more convincing if we're dressed as civilians," Wes added.

Thad beamed. "We've got two hours to rehearse if we want to get to Grand Central Station by one. We'll take cabs there in groups of, say, two or three, in order to keep things looking natural and organic. Now, Wes, the song will be...?"

Wes thumbed through the black book and opened it to somewhere right in the middle, shoving the book in Thad's direction.

Eyes glinting in the blinding stage lights, Thad chuckled. "Let's do this."

* * *

_April 19, 2011, 12:00 P.M., A Taxi Cab, New York City_

_ Dear Journal,_

_ I'm pretending that I'm texting Mercedes right now so that Blaine won't be able to pick up on the fact that I'm writing in a freaking journal. As if I could get any more like prepubescent-girl—it turns out that I write down all of my secrets in a godforsaken diary! _

_ I think we're in a relationship._

_ I definitely call that progress._

_ Because Blaine's not only gay..._

_ …but I'm pretty sure he likes me back._

—_Kurt_

_

* * *

_

"This is insane," Kurt said, pushing himself into one of the yellow cabs that David had called over. "I can't believe we're about to perform in front of all of the people circulating through Grand Central Station."

"It'll be our last hurrah until tomorrow," I told him, entering the cab myself and rubbing soothing circles into his back. "I can't believe Wes is allowing it, though. David really should give him the new gavel before Wes lets us do something even more stupid than this."

Kurt chewed on his bottom lip thoughtfully, and I listened to the noisy sounds of the New York City traffic. He reached out for my hand, and I curled my fingers around his. With his other hand, Kurt flipped through the sheet music, cramming the arrangement into his head.

"I hope this'll all turn out properly. We haven't even had that much rehearsal," he said, leaning his head against my shoulder.

I chuckled. "Don't need it. We're Warblers—we're masters at BS-ing things." I pressed a gentle kiss to his temple.

The taxi driver coughed to himself. "Sorry, kids, no PDA in the car, please." He slammed his hand onto the steering wheel, honking at the driver in front of him. "Not that I'm homophobic, or anything, it's just a policy."

Kurt's bewildered expression was soon replaced with a great sigh of relief. "That's nice to know."

"Yeah, I try to discourage yoohoo-ing in my vehicle," the taxi driver said. He grabbed the bottle of Diet Coke that was sitting in the cup holder beside him and took a long swig. "You been together long?"

Kurt turned bright red all the way up through his hairline and clutched my hand even tighter.

"Um," he said.

"A while," I answered for him, leaning over and studying the section of sheet music labeled "TENOR" nonchalantly.

"Have we? Are we?" Kurt whispered frantically in my ear, snapping the binder shut.

"Of course, Kurt," I told him firmly. "We've kissed, and we both like each other. I'd say we've got ourselves a nice, healthy relationship."

He relaxed in the seat beside me.

The cabbie looked at both of our reflections in his rearview mirror in amusement before returning his gaze to the road in front of him.

A few more minutes passed in silence, Kurt humming the tune of our song and tapping his foot in perfect rhythm.

"Well," the cab driver began, grunting as he stepped on the car brake. "This is your stop. Grand Central Station."

"Thanks," Kurt and I said in unison. I leaned over and pressed the fee into his open palm before pulling the door open and stepping out.

"Oh, and...good luck at...whatever you and your school's up to," the cabbie called from inside the car, his speech pattern broken and choppy from the gum he had been chewing on.

* * *

My eyes glanced up at the big clock, counting the seconds before we began. Wes had assigned me the part as lead soloist, citing the fact that I worked the best under pressure, and prepared a five-part backing harmony that utilized Randy's beatboxing abilities and Kurt's perfect pitch as well as it could.

Tick, tock, tick tock. The seconds passed by sluggishly.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

One o'clock.

"_Now!"_ Wes hissed from his perch by one of the public telephones. I closed my eyes, rushed to the center of the throng of people, and began the song.

"_Turn the lights on!"_

Wes, Thad, and David exchanged glances and nodded, taking long strides till they reached where I was standing. In my peripheral vision I could perceive Kurt strutting over, performance face intact, with Jeff, Nick, and Matt following close behind him. When I turned my head to face the left, I could even see the fiery head of the creepy freshman ginger, Thomas.

"_Every night I rush to my bed_

_With hopes that maybe I'll get a chance to see you_

_When I close my eyes, I'm going out of my head_

_Lost in a fairytale, can you hold my hand and be my guide?"_

The Warblers crowded around me, forming a distinctive square shape and marching in time with the music. I caught Kurt's eye—he winked at me, mouthing, "Keep going!" silently.

"_Clouds filled with stars cover the skies_

_And I hope it rains, you're the perfect lullaby_

_What kind of dream is this?"_

The harmonies intensified. I swore I could pick out the deep boom of Randy's voice, the lilting countertenor of Kurt's. The folksy twang of Jeff, and David's rich vocals. The pitter-patter of Matt's feet as he headed the crowd, performing an array of complicated twists and turns.

Oh, yeah. People were definitely starting to notice.

"_You could be a sweet dream or a beautiful nightmare—_

_Either way I don't wanna wake up from you..."_

Several voices stopped, allowing Wes' clear voice to shout behind my vocals.

"_Turn the lights on!"_

Wes had planned the song perfectly so that every Warbler managed to get little solos interspersed throughout the entire piece. Even though yelling "Turn the lights on!" wasn't exactly what most would call the best solo in the world.

A solo was a solo.

"_Sweet dream or a beautiful nightmare_

_Somebody pinch me, your love's too good to be true_

_Turn the lights on!_

_My guilty pleasure, I ain't going nowhere_

_Baby, long as you're here I'll be floating on air_

_'Cause you're my_

_You can be a sweet dream or a beautiful nightmare_

_Either way I don't wanna wake up from you..._

_Turn the lights on!"_

The Warblers broke apart from the stiff formation, each of us running around the Station and interacting with the people who were, at this point, videotaping us with their iPhones. I watched Jeff jog up to an elderly couple, and tried my hardest not to laugh when Kurt approached a baby in a carriage.

"_I mention you when I say my prayers_

_I wrap you around all of my thoughts_

_Boy, you're my temporary high_

_I wish that when I wake up you're there_

_To wrap your arms around me for real_

_And tell me you'll stay by side_

_Clouds filled with stars cover the skies_

_And I hope it rains, you're the perfect lullaby_

_What kind of dream is this?"_

Did Kurt realize that I was kind of, sort of singing the song to him?

Disregard the creepy lyrics about having weird dreams about him.

The second repeat of the chorus had us running back into a circular, ring-like formation, hands behind our backs. Matt, David, and Nick entered the circle as we parted the shape, and promptly began to freestyle some highly acrobatic hip-hop moves. Their directions from Wes had been, "Have fun with it, but no grinding, please."

So they were in the center, busting a rather intense groove as people surrounded us, hopefully impressed by our display.

The harmonies slowed down infinitesimally as I walked to the center of the circle, Matt, David, and Nick shuffling back into it. Randy promptly stopped in his beatboxing and joined the others as they let out low, perfectly timed hums.

"_Tattoo your name across my heart so it will remain_

_Not even death can make us part_

_What kind of dream is this?_

_You could be a sweet dream or a beautiful nightmare_

_Either way I don't wanna wake up from you_

_Turn the lights on!"_

And then the backing vocals stopped and we all finished the song with a final repeat of the chorus, each of our voices perfectly trained against one another.

"_Sweet dream or a beautiful nightmare_

_Somebody pinch me, your love's too good to be true_

_Turn the lights on!_

_My guilty pleasure, I ain't going no where_

_Baby long as you're here I'll be floating on air_

_'Cause you're my_

_You can be a sweet dream or a beautiful nightmare_

_Either way I don't wanna wake up from you_

_Turn the lights on!_

_Either way I don't wanna wake up from you..."_

David ran to face the crowd, fist pumping. "That's how the Warblers do it, boys!"

"Nationals 2011!" someone shrilled from the back row as Kurt shuffled up to me surreptitiously, thumping his fist against my back in a congratulatory gesture.

"You were amazing," he whispered into my ear as we strolled out of the Station and hailed a taxi.

* * *

**A/N****: So, yay. Random-ass chapter that has the Warblers attacking Grand Central Station in it. Because, come on, how amazing would that be? I'd die from the dapper-ness.**

**I've gotten a pretty big response saying that they'd want a sequel out of this. Now that I think about it, not really sure how it'd work, since there'd be minimal Klainage. Maybe I'll write a short epilogue instead of a huge sequel, a la Harry Potter. I think.**

**Please review!**


	10. Cruising

**READ ME:**** I am so, so, sososososo sorry about getting this chapter out so late! I've been tremendously busy finishing up the third quarter of my sophomore year, and writing Klainage has sort of escaped me T.T. But I got this out, which is the good thing. **

**Thank you to all of my loyal readers and reviewers! It's kind of cliche to say, but without you guys, there is LITERALLY no story. Wrapping this story up in two, three more chapters is going to be absolutely miserable because I'm gonna hate saying good-bye to the cast of "Welcome to the Bright Lights".**

** We're less than 20 reviews till we hit 150! LET'S DO IT, FRIENDS! Reviews take five seconds to do and make the author brilliantly happy.**

** Thanks to ****BeRightThere**** for editing and coming up with some plot points. You're my fellow Klaine whore. 3 3 3**

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**WELCOME TO THE BRIGHT LIGHTS CH.10: "CRUISING"**

David drummed his knuckles against the podium impatiently, tiredly watching Thad as he dug around a worn leather briefcase, shuffling files and papers around before grabbing a pile sectioned off with a navy paper clip.

Thad straightened up, brushing the invisible lint from the front of his sweater and shaking out the sheaf of paper calmly. He passed it to David, who rolled his eyes, took it, and shuffled to the center of the ballroom we had gathered at.

"Warblers!" David said, tone of voice switching instinctively to 'lead Warbler' mode. "It's the evening before Nationals. In order to make sure that we come...prepared tomorrow, Wes, Thad, and I have prepared an itinerary for everyone to receive and follow."

"On pain of death," Wes added half-heartedly, idly fiddling with the buttons on his wool cardigan.

David swatted Wes' shoulder, frown adorning his face, and continued. "Included on the itinerary is a list of everything you will _need_ to bring to the stage tomorrow. For example, your blazers and tie—oh my _God_, please do _not_ forget to bring your uniform, boys!"

"Your shoes need to be polished, too," Mr. Goolsby added flatly, adjusting his glasses so that they sat better on the bridge of his nose. "I want them so shiny I can see my reflection in them, you hear?"

Kurt chuckled next to me, nudged at my chest coyly with the back of his hand. "Help me shine my shoes later?" he whispered playfully.

I nodded, a smile slowly appearing on my face. "Only if you help me, too—my Oxfords are in a state of tragic disrepair."

"Thomas!" Thad barked, tapping at the pile of paper in David's hands. "Pass these out!"

The tiny redheaded freshman bowed his head and scurried forward, obediently taking the papers from David. He began timidly passing them out. I peered over at Randy's copy—the page was thick parchment, emblazoned with the crimson Dalton Academy logo.

"The epitome of class," Kurt said, examining his itinerary dryly.

Randy frowned, folding the paper up and tucking it into his front pocket. "Do we really need to wake up at four in the morning?"

"Yeah, isn't that a little bit too early to be living? The competition doesn't even start until eleven." Matt asked, evidently sharing the same concern as Randy.

Wes scoffed, his expression going even sourer. "Don't be stupid, Matt. And you, Randy. Stop being so lazy."

I shot an alarmed look at David, making a motion that suggested pounding a gavel against something. Had he not given Wes the new gavel yet?

David shook his head rapidly, mouthing the words, "Haven't given it to him yet."

"Wes is going insane without his gavel," Nick remarked loudly, leaning against one of the marble tables with the flower vases on them. Matt flicked him on the shoulder calmly and rested his forearm on Nick's shoulder.

Kurt cleared his throat pointedly, looking from Warbler to Warbler. "Are we done here?"

David shrugged. "It depends if everyone knows what's going on."

"Case in point, Warblers," Thad declared loudly, fanning himself with the leftover itineraries. "You will meet in the lobby no later than four o'clock tomorrow morning, dressed to the immaculate Dalton standard and armed with your choral books and a change of clothes. The bus leaves at four-fifteen. We wait for no one!"

Randy's thick eyebrows furrowed in deep. "We can't perform if we're missing a Warbler, though."

Thad looked ready to throw one of the flower vases at Randy. "Warblers," he hissed, eyes narrowing into tiny slits, "We wait for _no one_."

There was an exchange of nervous, frightened murmurs throughout the congregation of Warblers that stood in front of the obviously displeased Thad. Thomas Pierson and his other mousy freshmen friends looked ready to pee themselves; Jeff Simon, on the other hand, was slouching and standing away from most of the crowd, looking alarmed. Randy was crossing himself multiple times, muttering the Sign of the Cross to himself in rapid Latin. Matt's brilliant blue eyes were shut, murmuring several stanzas of traditional Chinese inspirational poetry to himself.

Of all the Warblers, only Kurt remained relatively relaxed, waiting a minute or so until the frightened clamor wore off until he clasped his hands together firmly, laughing pleasantly, and exclaiming, "Well, would you look at the time? Ten o'clock already. I'd say it's time we wind down and hit the sack, wouldn't you?"

Nick snorted, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. "More midnight makeout sessions?"

Kurt winked. "All the time, baby."

"I sincerely hope you're kidding," Mr. Goolsby and Jeff said at the same time, exchanging a nervous look.

"He is," I lied smoothly, twisting my hand into Kurt's behind our backs, where no one could see them. Kurt looked down at his shoes, slight pink spots appearing on his cheeks.

Wes slammed his fist onto the marble table next to him and winced. "Meeting adjourned!"

David gave Wes' bruised hand a worried look before turning on his heels and jogging up toward Kurt and I.

"Why the hell haven't you given him the new gavel yet?" I demanded, pointing towards Wes, who was having his hand iced by Ricardo. Ricardo had miraculously entered the ballroom with a bucket of ice from the dispenser upstairs, and Wes had gratefully plunged his entire hand into it.

"Look, man. I know that it's hurting him, but I want it to be a surprise."

"Then when _are_ you going to give it to him?"

"The green room?" Kurt suggested curiously.

David nodded. "Actually, yes. I was planning on giving it to him in the green room right before we go onstage. You know, so he'd be so excited that he'd perform even better."

Kurt sniffed pompously. "That's admittedly very bro-mantic of you, David."

"I agree," came the voice of Ricardo, who was sauntering towards us with the empty ice bucket in tow.

"Ricardo! I need to talk to you," I told him.

Kurt looked like someone had just plunged ice down his throat. "Yes, he does," he said, his lips pressed together as tightly as puzzle pieces. "Don't you have something to tell Blaine, Ricardo?"

A flash of unease passed across Ricardo's face briefly before disappearing, being replaced with an expression of total nonchalance. "Hm?"

Kurt raised one arched eyebrow at Ricardo, breathing out a swift sigh before turning away from him.

I squeezed his arm, feeling the warmth of his skin through the thin cotton of his shirt. "You okay, Kurt?"

"I'm fine," Kurt said shakily, his eyes failing to meet mine. Despite his obvious distress, Kurt's grip on my shoulder tightened, crawling down my arm until it reached my wrist. He clasped onto my hand tightly. I gave his hand a comforting squeeze, letting his head tilt and lean back into my chest.

David gaped at me, his gaze flickering between Kurt and I.

"Are you two—?"

Ricardo brushed his hand against the stubble on his chin, nodding his head and saying, "I think so."

"Because Mr. Goolsby and Jeff can't—"

"Kurt and Blaine know," Ricardo replied serenely, ignoring the dirty looks Kurt and I were shooting at him.

Kurt scoffed. "We can answer for ourselves, _thanks_. Things aren't always as they seem, are they, Ricardo?"

I turned to him, forehead wrinkling in confusion. "What?"

Ricardo looked up, slouching in his stance. "Never mind him."

David looked about ready to explode do to the influx of new information he had just received. "Okay then..." he muttered, directing his gaze towards the toes of his Adidas sneakers. "Well, I'm happy for you two, man."

Kurt shot David a slight ghost of a smile and Ricardo's mouth widened into a huge, toothy grin.

"Thanks?" I answered weakly, the sentence twisting and turning about on my tongue and coming out sounding like a question.

Kurt's face was blank and empty as we trudged across the lobby to the elevators.

* * *

_ Knock. Knock-knock. Knock-knock-knock-knock—_

"_What?_" I near-hollered at the hotel room door, clamping a fluffy pillow over my ears and rolling over in my sheets, stopping when I felt myself ramming up against Kurt's back. He was curled up in the sheets, cat-like, with a bolster pillow clutched tightly to his chest and his hair spilling and tumbling out across the pillow case. In his sleep, Kurt wore a small smirk, as if his dreams were vaguely hilarious...

"It's me," came Jeff's voice from the other side of the door, sounding slightly muffled because of the pillow I had pressed up against my ear.

"Ugh," Kurt groaned into his pillow tiredly. "_Don't_ let him in."

I rubbed soothing circles into his back, hauling myself out of bed and jamming my feet into the sheepskin slippers I had set up at its foot, smiling to myself as I recalled the events of last night: we had stumbled into the hotel room, tired and confused because of Ricardo's weird behavior, changed into pajamas, and pushed our two beds together to form one massive superbed comparable to...to _Pangaea_, or something.

But even with all of that room on the newly constructed bed, Kurt had somehow ended up with his back pressed up against mine, and I found my arms curling around his waist, pulling the warmth of his body closer to mine. Which, you can imagine, helped incredibly with the nerves for tomorrow's performance: we were probably the only Warblers who had gotten a full night's rest.

"I heard that!" Jeff shouted defiantly, banging on the door one more time for emphasis.

I trudged to the door and pulled it open with a little bit more force than necessary. "What do you want?"

"Okay, so firstly," Jeff said, flicking his bright blond bangs out of his eyes, "you guys needed to get up anyway, we need to be downstairs in thirty minutes."

"We know!" Kurt moaned from the bed, pulling the comforter over his head.

"And secondly, you guys have an extra blazer?"

I scratched the back of my neck, frowning when my pinkie got caught in one of the tight curls of my hair. "What size?" I tried to squint the sleepiness out of my eyes. It didn't work.

Jeff shrugged. "Whatever size Randy is. He's lost his blazer."

Kurt sat up in bed instantly, ripping his aloe eye mask off of his face to reveal bright eyes as wide as saucers.

_Please don't let Jeff see the bed, please don't let Jeff see the bed..._

Thankfully, Jeff didn't seem to notice that we had slept in the same bed. In fact, he seemed more concerned with demanding from us our extra Dalton Academy blazers.

"Randy _lost_ his blazer?" Kurt shrilled, gesticulating madly and slamming his eye mask onto the beside table. "He _lost_ it on the day of Nationals? _Seriously?_" Kurt pushed himself off of the bed, walking up to the door and leaning against the wall while rubbing at his eyes sleepily.

Jeff nodded solemnly, picking at his fingernails idly. "You know Randy. He hates the damn blazers. He loves the sweater vests, though."

"Only those aren't allowed," Randy was saying as he sauntered into the room, his collared shirt unbuttoned and his belt and tie hanging from around his neck. "And I can't find my blazer."

Kurt jabbed at Randy's forearm. "Can I...be honest?"

Jeff and I glanced up at each other. I tried to ignore the obvious dislike he had in his gaze—it didn't work.

Without preamble, Kurt brought a hand up to his chin and sniffed. "You're an idiot, Randy. I _cannot_ believe that you're missing a blazer—"

"What's all of this about missing a blazer?" Wes questioned, having just appeared in the doorframe right next to Jeff. He had a bottle of hair gel tucked in the crook of his right arm and was dragging a thin, bristled brush through his hair with the left.

Kurt and I both cradled our foreheads tiredly. "Is our room suddenly this giant meeting place for the Warblers or something?" I asked exasperatedly. "We just want to shower and get ready for this afternoon—"

"We're attracted to your room because of all the gay pheromones," Nick said with a wide grin, pushing past Wes and Jeff. He proceeded to peer into the actual bedroom. "Nice bed, guys."

"Shut up," Kurt grumbled before stifling a large yawn.

Wes looked about ready to throttle a small baby, shoving the hairbrush into Jeff's hand (Jeff was poked by one of the bristles and was about to let out a particularly rude curse word when he got a load of Wes' disapproving facial expression and decided it wasn't particularly wise) and shrieking, "What the _hell_ is this about a missing blazer?"

Kurt ignored him, swaying from side to side. "Aaaand David and Thad are going to arrive in this hotel room in five...four...three...two..."

"_Jesus_ Christ, would you pipe down, Wes?" Thad demanded, jogging down the hallway while simultaneously attempting to buckle his belt around his waist. "Why aren't Kurt and Blaine ready yet?"

"Because we're too busy talking to you guys," I said curtly, motioning to the entire host of Warblers who had clumped around Kurt and I's tiny hotel room.

"I have a skin care routine that needs tending to," Kurt said boredly, "so I'll just be in the bathroom getting ready. And _no_, I don't have an extra blazer that will fit Randy."

David exchanged a confused look with Thad. "Why would you need an extra blazer?"

Kurt turned on his heel and yanked the bathroom door open, slamming it shut behind him.

With a nervous chuckle, I scratched at the back of my neck and replied, "Randy's apparently lost his."

"Don't bother looking so surprised," Nick added, brushing the toes of his black patent leather shoes against the carpet. "Randy's always missing his jacket."

"Watch it!" Randy cautioned.

"This is bullshit, man!" David cried. "Randy can't just _perform_ without a jacket—"

I silenced him with my hand. "Calm down. Worst case scenario, we all just perform without the jackets—"

Wes blew a raspberry. "Don't be an idiot, we can't just go up there without the blazers, we'll look like stupid businessmen or something."

"And that's wrong _because_...?"

"Because it's not Warbler _tradition!_" Wes' hand flew to his face, massaging his temples firmly.

"Can we please take this out of my hotel room?" I complained, shooing Nick and Randy out the door. Nick swiftly stuck his middle finger up at me, but thankfully stepped out of the room. Jeff shuffled out, too. He was soon followed by Wes and David, whose blazer-clad arms were linked around each other's. I watched their retreating backs warily, hearing the sounds of David's sanguine whistling fade slowly as he continued down the hall. I was relieved when the noises dissipated completely and were replaced by the sound of Kurt creaking the bathroom door open, wearing only a terry cloth bathrobe and a gray toothbrush poking out of his mouth.

"Are they gone?" Kurt asked through a mouthful of Colgate.

I turned to him, cocking a quizzical eyebrow.

Kurt's eyes widened and became the size of dinner plates, and he promptly sprinted back into the the bathroom unceremoniously. I could vaguely perceive the sounds of Kurt spitting out the toothpaste into the sink, and then the unmistakable noise of the sink running.

"It's just toothpaste...!" I exclaimed weakly when he came out of the bathroom, an obviously angry look on his face and red spots appearing high on his cheekbones.

"Nothing," Kurt grumbled, yanking the closet door open and pulling out an Alexander McQueen garment bag labeled "DALTON UNIFORM: PERFORMANCE". "Toothpaste's awkward. Nothing big there. Go shower."

I dragged a hand through my hair. "I just showered last night," I told him defensively, sniffing at my t-shirt just in case. I still smelled normal—as normal as I could get, really, since I always wore cologne regardless of the time of day.

Kurt rolled his eyes at me as he undid the robe and pulled it off, revealing an undershirt and bright red boxers (_who's overly Dalton-enthusiastic now, Hummel_?). And admittedly, yes, it was ridiculously distracting, since Kurt was having trouble finding his gray slacks in the mess of his luggage. He was pressed flush against it, leaning forward, digging through its contents.

Shaking my head, I extracted my own garment bag from the closet and grabbed a bottle of hair gel from the bathroom counter.

Ice cold blood ran down my spine—I felt a pair of warm lips pressing up against the back of my neck and arms wrapping up around my waist.

"Kurt," I warned, placing both of my hands over his.

His breath was comforting against my skin and I watched in wonderment as his fingers reached for my hair gel from my grip. "Size of a dime, Blaine."

"My hair's too crazy without the gel, Kurt," I reminded him, pointing to my scalp. "It doesn't conform to the dress code."

"I don't care..." Kurt mumbled, his mouth pressed firmly against my collarbone. "But..."

"But what?"

Kurt grumbled right against my skin, the vibrations traveling up and down. "This is going to sound ridiculously stupid, but...I'm sort of nervous for today."

I spun him around to face me.

"Totally natural, Kurt."

"Not for _me_, though. I've never felt this nervous, since, I don't know..."

"Hm?"

"Two nights ago, actually," Kurt admitted softly, lacing his fingers through mine.

"When you kissed me?" I asked quietly, tilting my head up so I could look him straight in the eye.

"Yes."

"And how did that turn out?"

Kurt chuckled to himself. "Pretty damn well, if I do say so myself," he told me proudly. "Now get into your blazer before Wes impales you with his gavel...or lack thereof."

I cleared my throat, dutifully unzipping the garment bag and tugging out the Dalton jacket. "Duly noted, Mr. Hummel."

* * *

_April 20, 2011, 7:00 A.M., Aboard the Warblers' bus, New York City_

_ Dear Journal,_

_ This can't be happening. The bus cannot be stuck in traffic. This is all just one of those freaky dreams, and I'm going to wake up from it in five minutes like Holden Caulfield in _Catcher in the Rye_. Only I won't be insane, and I won't be in a mental institution. And I'll be gay, unlike Holden, with a somewhat-kind of boyfriend, and I'll have Wes' hands locked perpetually around my neck in an unspoken threat..._

** Hi, this is Blaine. I just found out that my boyfriend keeps a secret journal on his iPhone**

_ Me again. Hi._

_ I'm never letting aforementioned somewhat-kind of boyfriend near my iPhone again, because he just found out about the journal..._

_ ...and he can't read what I've written about him. No. Just, no._

** This is still Blaine, hi**

_I'll continue this once Blaine stops being so handsy._

—_Kurt_

_

* * *

_

"We're _doomed_," Thad cried melodramatically, standing straight up in his bus seat and leaning his forehead against the window pane.

"Can't you get through the traffic faster?" David demanded the mustachioed bus driver, who was resting his elbows against the steering wheel, playing Angry Birds on his Blackberry. He seemed to be ignoring the barrage of car honks and yells coming from the streets of New York. "We've been on the road for an hour already!"

"Sorry, kid," the bus driver grunted, jamming his thumbs on the keys of his phone. "Oh, damn, I nearly hit it, shitty Angry Birds..."

"And this is why we take the subway around New York," Kurt whispered under his breath, shooting a disparaging look in the direction of Mr. Goolsby, who was sitting in the shotgun seat, passed out asleep. "It's also why we don't hire amateur chaperones and coordinators when we compete out of state."

Randy shrugged, sticking out like a sore thumb in his tomato red sweater vest without a blazer. "It was either Goolsby or Weiland."

The Warblers shared a collective shudder. Weiland was famous for being overly cruel and bitter, personally victimizing each and every Dalton student. She had yelled, rejected, and humiliated her way to school-wide notoriety; despite this, rumors had emerged that she could actually _sing_. Regardless, Goolsby's laidback attitude and let-it-be outlook on life earned him the role as Glee club moderator, even though real power technically rested in the hands of the Council: Wes, Thad, and David.

"Hey, guys," I said peaceably, resting my palms on Kurt's knees. "At least we're all together, right?"

Nick snorted. "You mean, at least you're sitting next to _Kurt_."

I whipped my head around to face Nick, but caught Jeff's steely glance instead. He was watching me intently, and after about ten seconds of _that_, his gaze dropped to where Kurt and I were touching each other at the knees.

"Not at all!" I said, voice shooting up an entire octave.

"Please, you're not fooling us," Matt said dryly from his seat next to Nick. "I've seen geometric proofs less legitimate than you two."

Nick elbowed him harshly in the ribs. "What?"

"Math joke," Matt explained offhandedly.

"Are you two doing the deed in the Hyatt or what? It's my dad's hotel, I can and will install wire taps and hidden cameras to catch you two," Nick amended.

"Shut _up_, Nick, we don't need any more conspiratorial sex jokes from you, man," David called from the front of the bus, carefully checking off names on his clipboard. "Wes, why is an attendance sheet necessary? Everyone's here, you know..."

Jeff coughed loudly, pulling his feet out and placing them on the aisleway. "I, for one, would like to know."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Know what?"

His elbow moved, and I could see that he had a Snack Pack chocolate pudding cup in his right hand and a plastic spork in his left. Thad swept by his seat and snatched the pudding—Jeff looked mollified, then shrugged and pulled out a tin of Sour Cream and Onion Pringles from his backpack.

Kurt shot him a judgemental look. "_Carbs_," he hissed under his breath.

"I'd like to know what's going on between you two," Jeff reiterated stiffly.

"Uh, Jeff? Everyone can hear you, man," David said weakly, gesturing to the Warblers around us who had ceased their conversations in favor of listening to the big Kurt-and-Blaine reveal.

Jeff popped a Pringle into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. The entire bus had gone completely silent, and I could hear him crunching on it. "It shouldn't matter if everyone can hear, David. Because they're going to find out eventually."

Nick blew a raspberry. "We all _know_ what going on between them, Jeff, stop being such a tool—"

"I'm not being a tool, Nick! I'm just..."

Matt interrupted him. "Curious. Jeff's just curious."

There were a few moments of thought punctuated by the loud snores of Mr. Goolsby.

Kurt wrung his hands, his jaw going tight and his gaze growing steely. "Excuse me, if I may?"

"You _may_," Thad replied, licking a dollop of chocolate pudding right out of the cup. Jeff was watching, looking absolutely horrified.

"Gross, man," David whispered to Wes, who was applying spray-on Neosporin to the cuts he had on his hands from banging them on everything. You know, since he didn't have his gavel.

_ Of course you know._

There was a squeaking noise as Kurt stood up in his seat, folding his hands over his stomach and assuming an at least vaguely confident position.

"As you may know, I've recently grown very close to Junior Member Blaine Anderson," Kurt began, his soft voice somehow managing to travel all the way to the back of the bus. A few freshman had moved up closer to where we sat and had their earphones off, sitting coiled in their laps. They were listening to Kurt's words intently. "A-and...I'd like to think that he's recently gotten very close to me as well."

I winked at him and grinned.

"And, as you are all _painfully_ aware...Blaine and I are both gay. Out and proud. Homosexual. However you want to voice it...that's what we are."

Nick wolf-whistled unceremoniously. "Get some!"

"Shut up, Nick," Kurt said, not even deigning to look at him. "I'm talking. Anyway, everyone's been asking about what we _are_..."

"And what you're going to be," Matt reminded him, drumming his fingers against his knee.

"And I'd just like to say, before all else...well, I'm a huge supporter of romance. I've gone to my room with countless romance novels and pints of Ben & Jerry's. I've gone through lame romantic comedies like _Chances Are_ more times than I can count. I secretly enjoyed _Valentine's Day_, even if it did win a Razzie. I don't want anything else, really, other than a few rounds of good old-fashioned love and, simply put, adoration..."

Nick opened his mouth to say something, but was quickly silenced by Jeff, who shoved a bread roll into his mouth.

"Coming from McKinley, I never thought I'd ever _get_ that. Love. At all. _Never._"

"Kurt," I murmured. "Don't make too big a spectacle out of this—"

"I _will_ make a damn spectacle out of this, _Blaine_!"

"What are you trying to say?" Jeff asked, biting into another Pringle and brushing the crumbs off of his blazer.

"What I'm trying to say is that I _love_ Blaine. And I'm here. Right here. For as long as he wants me to be."

My jaw went slack and I ignored the chorus of "_aww"_s coming from the group of freshmen nearer to the back of the bus, and Wes and David and Thad giving each other triple high-fives, and Matt, who was ignoring the hubbub and stoically highlighting and annotating a passage of a book written in traditional Chinese. I ignored Randy, who was looking unexpectedly appreciative, despite his plans of becoming a priest in the Catholic Church, and Nick, who was smirking as he pounded the keys of his cell phone, probably texting one of his Dalton friends back home. And most of all, I ignored Jeff, who looked resigned as he popped the cap back onto the Pringles and slid the can back into his backpack with as much dignity as he could muster.

Because Kurt _loved_ me. He wasn't joking around, or being flirtatious, or being playful. He had been serious and his gaze had been intense.

A timid pat on my shoulder brought me back to earth and out of my contemplations.

"Blaine?" Kurt questioned. "Are you still with me?"

"Still with you," I breathed, reaching out and taking his hand.

Kurt smiled warmly. "Thanks."

There was commotion as Wes staggered to the very front of the bus, ramming his Physics textbook against one of the poles that were standing throughout the bus. "Warblers! The traffic's freeing up. We'll be out of this street in no time."

"Yay," Matt muttered under his breath sarcastically, flipping a page in his book.

"We'll be late, but we'll still have some time before we have to go onstage," David added.

Thad shot up from his seat. "How much longer till we get to the arena?"

David checked his watch. "Oh, thirty minutes or so. We'll have to find some way to pass the time until then, I guess. Sorry about that, man."

Thomas Pierson's red hair stuck out from the back of the bus. "Can we sing something?" he inquired, naive boredom dripping from his voice.

Wes looked like Tom had just smacked him in the face with a particularly heavy brick while Kurt hummed a chuckle to himself, looking mildly amused. "_So_ typical," Kurt whispered right into my ear. I laughed and pressed a brief kiss to his jawline—his surprised reaction only helped to better my mood.

"Dude, no," Jeff said with a lazy yawn.

"Jeff!" Wes snapped, hitting the pole with his textbook again. "We've got to warm up, anyway."

"Fine," Jeff countered, crossing his arms over his chest.

"David, 'Killer Queen' on three."

David rapped his hand against the side of his seat in time with the opening beats of the song, and Randy immediately shot out of his sleepy stupor in order to start his rhythmically perfect beatboxing. Matt's voice soon melded into the harmony, followed by Tom and Kurt's slightly higher-pitched voices soaring above everyone else. I joined in last, backing up David as he began to sing:

"_She keeps Moet et Chandon _

_In a pretty cabinet _

"_Let them eat cake," she says _

_Just like Marie Antoinette_

_A built-in remedy _

_For Khrushchev and Kennedy _

_At anytime an invitation _

_You can't decline..."_

A chorus of "_ooh"_s rippled throughout the bus; the bus driver slammed his hand on the car horn in perfect time with the song. Kurt valiantly took the next part of the song with more confidence than I'd ever seen in his voice.

"_Caviar and cigarettes _

_Well versed in etiquette _

_Extraordinarily nice..._

_She's a Killer Queen _

_Gunpowder, Gelatine_

_Dynamite with a laser beam _

_Guaranteed to blow your mind _

_Anytime..._

_Recommended at the price _

_Insatiable in appetite_

_Wanna try?"_

When he finished, Kurt wiggled his eyebrows at me as if to say, "Well, Blaine, it's _your turn_."

"_To avoid complications _

_She never kept the same address _

_In conversation _

_She spoke just like a baroness _

_Met a man from China _

_Went down to Asia Minor _

_Then again incidentally _

_If you're that way inclined..." _

At this point, my face was dangerously near Kurt's and we were practically singing the song _to_ each other, even thought it technically wasn't romantic at _all_. David was already beginning to dance along with the song, and Matt had dropped his book in favor of performing a few loose flips down the aisleway once the bus hit a stop light. A few confused drivers outside the windows were looking at us like we were crazy.

Obviously, we didn't care.

I tapped Kurt's nose playfully as we all vocalized the next part of the song in perfect harmony. His eyes scrunched up a little bit in laughter and he squeezed my shoulder, taking his voice out of the song for a moment in order to release a pent-up laugh.

"_Drop of a hat she's as willing as _

_Playful as a pussy cat _

_Then momentarily out of action _

_Temporarily out of gas _

_To absolutely drive you wild, wild _

_She's out to get you..."_

The bus driver had officially gone off the deep end and was singing along with us in a surprisingly deep, melodious voice.

"_Recommended at the price_

_Insatiable in appetite_

_Wanna try?_

_You wanna try..."_

_Why is it, dear Blaine_, my subconscious asked me cattily, _That everyone you meet knows how to sing?_

_I wouldn't have it any other way_, I replied mentally, reveling in the heat of Kurt's palm against mine and the harmonies reverberating against the walls.

_April 20, 2011, 8:00 A.M., Carnegie Hall, New York City._

_ Dear Journal,_

_ I'm absolutely stressed out. I've squeezed Blaine's hand so many times and so hard that I'm pretty sure he's going to need to get it amputated. He's pressed comforting little pecks to my temple and jawline so much that I'm sure my face has gone completely red. And we're going onstage in three hours. In Carnegie Hall. In New York City. For show choir Nationals._

_ That's fucking huge, sir._

_ And Randy's lost his jacket, Wes has lost his gavel, and Jeff's entered a state of depression. He's currently relearning all of the dance steps with Matt and Nick._

_ Back in New Directions, it took us less than a week to prepare for big things like this._

_ Next year, with Blaine off in college and Dalton Academy miserably void of all of my friends..._

_ ...is it worth living a life so prepared and organized, with perfect itineraries and perfect uniforms...?_

_ But it's _Blaine_ I'm talking about here._

_ And Blaine just happens to be the perfect boyfriend._

_ —Kurt_

_

* * *

_

**A/N:** **Guys. GUYS. "BLACKBIRD", "MISERY", "CANDLES", "RAISE YOUR GLASS". ARGH. ARGH. SO AMAZING. What did y'all think?**

** Oh, and I'm going to surreptitiously slip in a "Please review! We're almost at 150!" :D :D :D :D :D *gets shot down violently***

**NEXT CHAPTER:**** The Warblers compete. Here there be Kurt's ballad, gavel drama, Ricardo drama, Randy's Missing Blazer drama, etc., etc.**


	11. Limelight

**READ ME:**** So I'm pretty aware that this is one of the worst chapters in this entire series (excluding the first one, haha!) but it does not matter because Kurt and Blaine's relationship is canon. I also happened to get a C on my Geometry test.**

** Doesn't matter because KLAINE IS CANON.**

** I REGRET NOTHING.**

** Also, follow me on Tumblr! Ask me questions! I don't know. **

**p a u n d r o m a t . t u m b l r . c o m**

** Furthermore, many thanks to ****Anya the Purple****, who drew lovely fanart for "Bright Lights". Check out her deviantart account (she's got the same username over there as she does on )! :)**

**DISCLAIMER:**** I don't own Glee.**

**

* * *

**

**WELCOME TO THE BRIGHT LIGHTS CH.11: "LIMELIGHT"**

"Jeff? I need to talk to you."

Jeff's eyes never left the notebook in front of him. He was drumming the pencil poised in his hand against the edge of his binder. "Hm?" he asked, scratching something out on the page and scribbling another word back in. "Go away, Blaine. I'm doing my biology homework."

Everyone was sitting around a spacious dressing room, the lights surrounding the mirrors turned up all the way. Jeff had managed to tuck himself in the very back of the room, far away from the rest of the Warblers, who were busy reviewing the song lyrics, trying to find an extra blazer for Randy, and generally hyperventilating. Kurt was talking to Wes with a pinched look on his face, twiddling his thumbs together. Wes was practically in hysterics, and every five minutes he would cry out for _all of us Warblers to please shut the hell up_.

So, really, it was definitely a surprise that Jeff was working on homework. Of all times. Right before going onstage—okay, so we had three hours, but still—and he was sitting alone, ignoring team spirit, studying biological sponges and corals. Something like that, since he had several large colored diagrams of mollusks open at his feet.

I turned my head to look at all of the other Warblers congregating behind us. David had the cardboard parcel pushed to the very side of the makeup table, and was eying the thing very expectantly, as if he was waiting for it to throw itself at Wes. Kurt had a comforting arm around Wes.

And Randy had sent Thomas Pierson and his posse of naive freshmen to scope the costume rooms for navy blazers.

"_Please_, Jeff. I need to talk to you. About Kurt." I pressed my lips together after I said that, trying to ignore how nice Kurt's name had felt on my tongue.

Jeff let out a stream of random mutters before grumbling, "Not now, Blaine. I'm doing my homework." He angrily flicked his too-long bangs out of his eyes.

There was an amused chuckle coming from Matt, who had also stationed himself far away from everyone else. He had a large dictionary at his feet and a Netbook perched on his lap.

"Kurt and I are dating now," I said, ignoring what he had just said.

"I'm pretty sure that I can see that. You guys suck face whenever you think you're alone."

I felt blood rushing to my face instantaneously. "N-no!"

But then I remembered that one time two hours ago when Wes and David had sent Kurt and I up to grab the microphones from the tech crew, and how the tech room was empty, and how we had passed a few minutes in the crew's absence...

But it wasn't exactly _sucking face_, per se.

Jeff let out a throaty laugh, dismissing my horrified expression and shaking his head ruefully. "What the hell is a tunicate...?" I watched as he reached down into his knapsack to pull out half of a strawberry Pop Tart.

I shrugged.

Matt cleared his throat. "Sessile marine chordate. I mean, that's what it is. If you were wondering. Saclike body enclosed in a tunic-like structure. Two siphons? Tunicates?"

I rolled my eyes. "Go away, Matt."

He smirked, closed his disturbingly large dictionary, and scooted his chair closer to the melee unfolding at the front of the room. "You'll never be rid of me."

"Tunicates. Stupid, how did I forget that?" Jeff was murmuring to himself as he wrote in a few lines about the distinctive traits of tunicates.

"Of course you forgot them. They're called tunicates," I told him stiffly, tucking my hands into the pockets of my blazer. "I'd forget them, too. Thank God I'm taking Physics this year..."

"I'm planning on becoming a doctor," Jeff continued, his pencil scratching away at the paper as he swiftly sketched out an illustration of a tunicate. "So I had to take AP Bio senior year. Sucks." He popped the last bit of Pop Tart into his mouth and brushed the crumbs off of his binder.

I cocked an eyebrow at him. "You know where you want to go to college already?"

"University of Connecticut," Jeff said, swallowing noisily. "Early admission, so I'm all set to go there as soon as I graduate. Spending a few weeks in Ohio over the summer, of course. Hang out with some Warblers. Make memories. Whatever. You?"

"I kind of...well, I kind of just applied everywhere," I admitted sheepishly. "I know that I want to study law on the East coast. And that's it."

"Christ, I forgot that you rich kids can afford all of those extra application fees to the Ivies..." Jeff mumbled under his breath before shaking his head and asking me, "And of course you'll be following Kurt wherever he goes, right?"

I gave him a small smile as I leaned against the nearest makeup table. "He's still a junior. He's staying in Ohio for senior year."

I hadn't thought about that.

I honestly hadn't given leaving Kurt, leaving home, leaving Ohio...

I hadn't thought about it at all.

Because, in all actuality, college had seemed so far away. Like this watery, undefinable mass that was floating atop all of my commitments, all of my plans, intangible. It felt like it would never come.

Don't get me wrong. I was definitely there for all of the college interviews. And I was most undoubtedly there for all of the ACTs and SATs that seemed to suck the life right out of you. I was there when I used my status as a Dalton Academy senior to tutor Kurt as he worked on his PSATs and, later, his SATs. Those sessions had gone by lightning fast—Kurt memorized SAT vocabulary words remarkably fast, and we spent the better half of the hour talking about Vogue and InStyle instead of flicking through the endless stacks of flashcards surrounding us.

And my mother expected me to go out-of-state. She funded every single spending expenditure, every application fee, every A.P. fee, every SAT fee, every ACT fee. She didn't bat an eyelid when I requested money for my SAT subject tests.

The letters. They'd be coming.

And then I'd be leaving Kurt.

I wouldn't even get to spend a _semester_ with him as his boyfriend.

"You okay, Blaine? Earth to Blaine?" Jeff had set aside his pencil case and was currently rummaging through his knapsack. He finally pulled out a Ziploc bag of peanut butter cremes.

"Nothing," I said hastily. "I should go."

"Wait." Jeff's hand reached out to pat me on the forearm. "Look, Blaine, I know that we've had of ups and downs..."

I nodded wordlessly.

"But let's just...look, I'm in love with Kurt. But Kurt's not in love with_ me_, he's in love with you. Take that as a blessing. He's an amazing person. Treat him right. Don't let him slip away."

I gave him a nervous laugh. "Why are we getting all deep all of a sudden? We're going onstage in less than three hours..."

Jeff snorted. "We never talk because you're a dapper bastard and I'm an arrogant one. Might as well make use of what we've got."

I was about to respond to Jeff when I perceived a buzzing in my front pocket—

_From: Ricardo-Hyatt_

_ Blaine. I'm outside and I need to talk to you._

Jeff shot a confounded stare at me as I pocketed the phone and slipped out of the dressing-room.

* * *

_April 20, 2011, 10:00 A.M., Carnegie Hall, New York City_

_ Dear Journal,_

_ I think that I can feel my stomach falling out of my body right now._

_ Three hours to Nationals and I'm already freaking out. _

_ We got here significantly earlier than all of the other teams, despite the traffic, and now we're just...sitting. I can hear the Glee clubs who are performing before us—the dressing rooms are hooked up to the stage microphones. _

_ I just reminded myself about my solo. Oh my God, I have a microphone pinned to my lapel! Oh, God!_

_ Wait a minute, is that Ricardo...?_

—_Kurt_

_

* * *

_

Ricardo's face looked gaunt and stressed by the time I managed to meet him outside the dressing room, in the hallway. He was dressed in street clothes for the very first time—a particularly heinous coral button-down with dark navy pants. Seeing him out of uniform was weird. He really wasn't that much older than the rest of the Warblers.

"Ricardo?"

"Can I come in?" he asked, jerking his head towards the dressing room door.

I bit my lip. "I'm not really sure, see. It's a closed dressing room, and the Triumvirate doesn't like spies..."

Ricardo paled instantly. "Look, man. I really don't have time for negotiation. Please open the damn door." The words sounded funny coming out of his mouth—he looked nervous as hell, but his what he was saying was blatantly aggressive.

And the color of his shirt was distractingly bright.

I managed to emit an oh-so-manly shriek as Ricardo reached out to pull on the door handle and dart into the dressing room.

_"Hey!"_

_

* * *

_

_April 20, 2011, 10:05 A.M., Carnegie Hall, New York City_

_ Dear Journal,_

_ I am floored._

—_Kurt_

_

* * *

_

"SPY!" Thad shouted, shooting up from the chair he had been spinning around on.

"Idiot," Kurt snapped, pointing a finger to Ricardo. "That's the bellhop from the Hyatt. I must say, though, Ricardo, that I applaud you for your use of spring brights in your wardrobe...orangey-pinks are definitely very in this time of year."

"Ni hao," Matt added, briefly looking up from his dictionary.

Ricardo shot a quizzical glance at Kurt, who sniffed haughtily and shrugged his shoulders. Matt had resumed scribbling notes onto his little clipboard, and Thad was still looking rabid as he stood, poised to kill.

And then he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a gavel.

"I have the gavel," he whispered, holding it out for someone to take.

Wes ran to Ricardo and snatched the gavel away from him, cradling it in his arms and promptly hitting it against the nearest bit of wall he could find.

Randy raised his eyes to the heavens. "Thank you, Lord, for finding us worthy of your promise..."

"Are you for real?" Nick asked, dubiously examining Ricardo, who was slumped over leaning against one of the chairs that the Warblers had left littered throughout the room.

"DAMN!" David shouted, striding right up to Ricardo and poking him in the chest. "I already got Wes a gavel, man!"

Wes looked up from fondling his newly-found gavel. "You...you _what?_"

"Here we go," Kurt said, letting out a tired sigh.

"You were all distraught, man, so I bought you a new gavel," David explained, pulling the cardboard parcel from where it had been sitting on the countertop. "It was freaking expensive, too."

With shaking hands, Wes managed to unwrap the packaging to reveal another gavel almost identical to his old one. "Thanks, David," he said, swallowing a lump in his throat.

David gave him an uneasy grin. "Well, not like I can return it, or anything. The antique shop I got it from has a no-return policy..."

"Excuse me," Randy asked, crossing his arms over his blazer-less sweater fest. "But why do you even have the gavel, Ricardo?"

"Yeah!" Thomas Pierson and his horde of freshmen chimed in.

"It's...it's a long story," Ricardo said weakly, stroking the stubble that grew along the side of his jawbone. "And it doesn't look very forgiving on my part."

"We've crossed that line a long time ago," Kurt offered bluntly, filing away at his perfectly shaped nails. He had his iPhone sitting in his lap—I tried to avoid smiling to myself. Ever since I had discovered the nature of Kurt's journal-keeping tendencies, I couldn't help but wonder what he wrote about...

"You're going to call me a good-for-nothing backstabbing underhanded spy," Ricardo continued, "But really, guys, no. You gotta do what you gotta do."

"What are you saying?" Thad demanded snidely.

"Okay. So let's get my story straight, 'kay?" Ricardo replied. "Gather round...Warblers."

Matt and Jeff scooted closer.

"So, Blaine. You know how I said that I went to an all-boys boarding school in New Hampshire?"

I nodded.

"I may or may not have been a member of the Brackville Boys' Show Choir—the Symphonics, as we referred to ourselves as..."

"What I don't really get," Jeff said through a mouthful of peanut butter biscuit, "Is why you'd try to sabotage the Warblers if you're not on the Symphonics anymore."

"The Symphonics are glee club legends!" Wes was gasping to himself, clutching at the two gavels in his hands even tighter. "They've gone to Nationals every year since _1997_. They're longstanding judge favorites and their formations are to die for!" He shot a disparaging look at all of the other Warblers. "Our formations, on the other hand, look like amoebas whenever we're trying to achieve the look of a perfect circle.."

Ricardo pressed his lips together before saying, "My brother. He had done some research on the Warblers, and he found out that you guys were staying at my Hyatt. He wanted me to disassemble this show choir from the bottom up. And he told me that a little birdie told him that the only way you manage to control the Warblers is with your gavel.

"Needless to say, I felt like crap. I took it from Wes during the sing-off, during all of the chaos with Jeff and Blaine. And I watched as the Warblers went totally batshit—I mean, Wes was all morbid, David was tied up in helping Wes, Thad was stressed from handling everything, Jeff was a victim of unrequited love, Kurt and Blaine were _in_ love, and now...what's this about missing a blazer?"

"Randy's missing a blazer," Kurt explained tartly. "And...can I be honest with you?"

Ricardo nodded.

"I really want to slap you right now."

Ricardo nodded again.

David stood up from his seat. "Ricardo, I'm afraid that I must tell you that this is a Warbler-exclusive dressing room. And you're not a Warbler. So please."

"Leave," Matt suggested flatly, flipping a page in his dictionary.

* * *

_Is this a dream?_ I thought to myself as Kurt led me by hand through the twisting corridors of Carnegie Hall, through the people-packed lobby, through the doors. To the street.

"Two medium drips for us and cheap coffee for everyone else?" Kurt suggested as we strolled together in search of a coffee shop.

It was ridiculous, really, how close we were cutting it to performance time. But no one was staying on track, and everyone was stressing out...and finally, Kurt snapped. He stood up on his chair and proclaimed that he was yanking one Blaine Anderson out with him to grab coffee for everyone.

Kurt's hand slipped snugly into mine, and I stroked at the inside of his palm with the pad of my thumb. I could feel how clammy they were—he was still so nervous.

"Don't be nervous," I whispered against his temple. "You'll do fine."

Kurt let out an airy laugh. "Nervous? Who, me? Crazy talk."

"Look at him," I told him, jabbing a finger at a man wearing a particularly unfortunate puke-green tie. "That's heinous." Not that I was trying to get Kurt's mind off of things, or anything.

"Him? Look at _her_," Kurt said with a bit of a giggle, pointing to the super-thigh-high boots of the woman in question.

"Look at her!" we whispered simultaneously, surreptitiously pointing to the teenage girl standing in front of us with tassels erupting from her denim miniskirt—

"Hey, judging by your uniforms, I'm guessing you're a Dalton Canary or whatever, right?" the girl said, turning towards as and nearly whipping Kurt in the thigh with one of her skirt-tassel-things. She shook the plastic bag she had draped over her arms. "You know Randy Lawless?"

"He's our lead beatboxer," I told her proudly.

Snapping her gum, the girl tugged at the neckline of her already low-cut blouse. "I'm his sister. Maureen Lawless. But they all call me MoMo. Frankly, I don't get it. It ain't under my discretion. But whatever."

"MoMo? The infamous MoMo?" Kurt asked. "I roomed with Randy for a couple nights. He talks about you all the time. _Prays_ for you all the time."

"Not for good things, I hope," MoMo said, absentmindedly twirling a strand of hair between her fingers.

Interesting dichotomy. Randy was a pastor-to-be, and his sister, MoMo, was as trampy and harlotlike as they came.

MoMo stuck her hand out at Kurt. He took a moment to gawk at her atrocious manicure job before giving her a firm handshake.

"Nice to meetcha," she said with another bored snap of her gum.

"Do you live in New York?" I asked her as Kurt stepped up to the barista to make a bulk order to coffees. "Or are you just here for pleasure?"

"Clearly just here for pleasure," she said with a subtle glint in her eyes. "If ya know what I mean."

Kurt eyed her miniskirt disdainfully.

"Anyway," MoMo drawled, pushing the plastic garment bag she held into Kurt's arms, "Randy texted me at some ungodly hour to tell me to fetch him his blazer. I've been trying to get into Carnegie for the better part of two hours. Bastards won't let me in!"

"They do have a policy of appropriate dress," Kurt remarked, peeling away the plastic to reveal a neatly pressed navy blazer with red piping. "And you're dressed..."

"I know," MoMo replied curtly, stepping up to help Kurt with all of the coffees he had gotten. "He just had better thank hiss sorry ass that I'm here in the Big Apple."

"Oh? Why are you here, Maureen?" Kurt inquired, looking more than a little bit miffed.

I nudged him on the shoulder. "She's like, three years older than Randy. She's probably here for college."

MoMo let out a long, extended giggle. "College? Hell no. I've got my boyfriend living here. And my job."

There was an awkward pause.

She patted Kurt on the chest. "Well, are you gonna let me in or what?"

"Pardon?" Kurt asked.

"Hey, I haven't seen Randy in half a year. I wanna see my brother, okay? Let me into Carnegie."

"I'm not sure if that's allowed—" I began halfheartedly, but Kurt's hand slapped over my mouth and silenced me.

"Sure. I know what it's like to have no family in the audience when I perform," Kurt said. " And it sounds like you really miss him."

"That's regretfully true," MoMo replied, thoughtfully sipping at the cotton-candy pink frappuccino she had in her hands.

* * *

"Gavel crisis: resolved. Blazer crisis: resolved. Ricardo crisis: pending resolved. Nationals crisis: ongoing," Kurt groaned, leaning against my shoulder as I stared up at the clock. Less than two hours remained until we had to get up onstage.

Various Warblers were now scattered throughout the dressing room, cups of cheap coffee in one hand and cell phones in the other. They were all calling their parents and loved ones frantically—I caught snippets of rushed Polish from Matt and what sounded mostly like whines and complaints from Jeff. Randy had shrugged on the blazer MoMo had brought for him, and was now sitting with her, trying to get her to _absolve her sins_ or whatever.

She wasn't exactly listening.

"Come on," I said, prodding a bottle of Evian at him. "Drink something. Your voice will be scratchy onstage if you don't."

Kurt's eyes widened in alarm and he immediately chugged down the water.

"Well, you didn't need to drink _all_ of it. What if you find yourself having to pee while you're singing...?"

"_Blaine!"_

"Kidding, kidding," I responded, pulling his waist closer to me.

Kurt shook his head rapidly. "Now I have to go to the bathroom and it's all your fault. Screw you, Blaine."

I gave him a look of false shock as he stormed off into the bathroom.

"Wha—! _Kurt!"_

_

* * *

_

_April 20, 2011, 12:05 P.M., Carnegie Hall, New York City_

_ Dear Journal,_

_ This is it. I am going to die. I am going to randomly develop atherosclerosis onstage and I am going to suffer a heart attack and die. I will most likely emit unattractive noises as I go down and Blaine will be forever appalled and grossed out._

_ And he will run to the bathroom to brush his teeth in an attempt to rid himself of kissing me so many times in the past few days._

_ I still can't decide between dying onstage or staying alive._

_ If I died, I wouldn't have to deal with Ricardo, Jeff..._

_ ...or, come to think of it, my father. Who still doesn't know anything about Blaine and I._

_ But if I stay alive, I get to kiss Blaine more._

_ Decisions, decisions._

—_Kurt_

_

* * *

_

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, hailing from Westerville, Ohio...the _Dalton Academy Warblers_!" The boom of the announcer's voice practically shook the auditorium.

Loud cheers and ruckus erupted from the audience. Camera lights flashed around the dim theatre; Kurt shot me a nervous look from his perch on the topmost riser.

"The Dalton Academy Glee club is a traditional extracurricular organization moderated by Gavin Goolsby and student-led by David Chapel, Wes Youngs, and Thaddeus Meyers. Since the early 1900s, the Warblers have risen to state-wide fame for their acapella medleys of modern songs. This year, the Warblers have senior Blaine Anderson, senior David Chapel, and junior Kurt Hummel on lead vocals..."

More noise from the audience. I watched Wes as he anxiously wrapped his fingers around the two gavels that were sticking out of his trouser pockets.

"And without further ado, _please put your hands together...!"_

We were in our triangular formation, and from its very tip emerged David. David was all tense smiles and glowing skin and perfect stage persona as his strong, rich voice introduced us, the Dalton Academy Warblers. Yes, we're the Warblers, and we're going to rock your damn world.

Something like that. I think that's what David was trying to convey in his one-minute introductory solo.

Even though David's song was short, the audience still seemed to respond to it very well. When he finished, there was a round of catcalls and various sounds of encouragement; when it subsided, the Warblers began to undulate in their formation in time with their smooth vocalizations. We stopped once Kurt stepped out from the throng, smiling nervously and closing his beautiful blue eyes. I managed to catch his attention with a subtle wink. I'm happy to say that he returned it.

The room went slack-still when Kurt began his song.

"_Have you ever fed a lover with just your hands?_

_Closed your eyes and trusted, just trusted?_

_Have you ever thrown a fist full of glitter in the air?_

_Have you ever looked fear in the face and said, 'I just don't care...'?"_

I bit back a smile. Kurt's voice was gentle but powerful, washing over the audience with its bell-like clarity. And the song was unapologetic and simply _him_, all about incandescence and trust and looking fear into the face and _courage_.

Pride swelled in my heart as I raised my voice to harmonize with him, his high voice melding perfectly with mine on the next few lines.

"_It's only half past the point of no return_

_The tip of the iceberg_

_The sun before the burn_

_The thunder before the lightning_

_The breath before the phrase_

_Have you ever felt this way...?"_

I stepped down from the risers and joined Kurt, he on the left of the formation, and I on the right. The blinding stage lights seemed almost welcoming.

"_Have you ever hated yourself for staring at the phone?_

_Your whole life waiting on the ring to prove you're not alone..._

_Have you ever been touched so gently you had to cry?_

_Have you ever invited a stranger to come inside?"_

The Warblers behind us echoed in our song: "_Come inside, come inside, come inside..._", they sang.

"_It's only half past the point of oblivion_

_The hourglass on the table_

_The walk before the run_

_The breath before the kiss_

_And the fear before the flames_

_Have you ever felt this way?"_

_You most definitely have, Blaine,_ my internal monologue told me as I regressed back into the formation, now rectangular, leaving Kurt on his own to wrap up the rest of the song. His voice was heartbreakingly gentle but rough as he finished the last few lines.

"_La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la..._

_There you are, sitting in the garden_

_Clutching my coffee,_

_Calling me sugar_

_You called me sugar..."_

Kurt turned his head to grin right at me.

"_Have you ever wished for an endless night?_

_Lassoed the moon and the stars and pulled that rope tight?_

_Have you ever held your breath and asked yourself, 'Will it ever get better than tonight?'_

_Tonight...?_"

* * *

_From: Mom_

_ Blaine, darling, call me as soon as you finish your performance. Father and I want to know how it went._

I smiled in my chair, looking over to where Kurt's iPhone sat on the side table a few feet away. It had been vibrating violently for the past two minutes. Kurt was in the bathroom, taking a full-length shower after the performance because he said that the stage lights made him feel sweaty and absolutely gross.

Us Warblers had decided to go back to the hotel as the scores were tabulated; since we had so many other glee clubs going against us, the rankings and trophies wouldn't be provided until the evening of the performance day.

"Kurt, your phone's buzzing," I said, reaching out and picking up his phone. _10 new messages_, it said.

"You can check them yourself," he called, his voice coming out sounding very garbled by because of the noises the shower made as the water rivulets collided with the floor. "There's nothing incriminating on that phone, I promise you that."

I chuckled and tapped my fingers against the touch screen. "We'll see about that."

_From: Mercedes Jones_

_ hey bb, totally just saw you livestreamed. fantastic!_

_ From: Dad_

_ hey, kiddo. tell me how the performance went?_

_ From: Finn Hudson_

_ dude all of new directions just livestreamed your performance. good job._

_ From: Noah Puckerman_

_ wtf didnt know you could sing like that_

_ From: Brittany Pierce_

_ i didnt get the shapes u guys made_

_ From: Rachel Berry_

_ Kurt—_

_ I know we've had our disagreements in the past, but please, allow me to say that your performance was absolutely breathtaking. And the song choice was perfect for you—"Glitter In The Air"? You love glitter. _

_ From: Tina C-C_

_ hey, tina and mike here! congrats and great performance!_

_ From: Artie Abrams_

_ Kurt, that performance was off the chain, yo!_

_ From: Quinn Fabray_

_ you did so well. i'm so proud of you._

It was all pretty uneventful until I got to the very last one. My eyebrows shot up to my hairline as I read:

_ From: Mercedes Jones_

_ omg. y didnt you tell me about you and blaine? white boy, you and him were staring at each other the entire time you were singing "glitter in the air"..._

"Kurt?" I said, loudly enough so he could hear from the bathroom. "I think you need to tell Mercedes something."

* * *

**A/N:**** DO NOT KILL ME FOR MAKING RICARDO A FORMER SYMPHONIC. He's going to be redeemed—but in your reviews, I'd like to hear your theories. Haha. Anyway, yes. Next chapter will be the great scoring reveal, and the addressing of Kurt and Blaine's relationship to not only Mercedes, but the Hudmel residence, as well.**

** I'm so glad that I can finally say that Kurt's ballad is "Glitter in the Air". My friend ****BeRightThere**** chose the song for him at the very beginning of "Bright Lights". Kind of ironic, seeing as how the canon!Warblers ended up doing "Raise Your Glass" at Regionals. What can I say, P!nk is legendary.**

** So, thank you for reading, and don't forget to make the angels smile by dropping me a review.**


	12. Big Dreams

**READ ME****: Well, here we are at Chapter 12. You know how I was supposed to end this story at around Chapter 11? Well, that's clearly not happening. These Warblers refuse to go away!**

**Enjoy, and don't forget to add to story alert, favorite, and review!**

**DISCLAIMER:**** I don't own Glee.**

* * *

**WELCOME TO THE BRIGHT LIGHTS CH. 12: "BIG DREAMS"**

Kurt's grip on my hand tightened as he grinned straight at me, face illuminated by the subtle glow of his silver Macbook, which was perched on the foot of the bed. He and I had flopped down onto the comforter, stuck side-by-side like sardines in a can. His still-damp hair fanned out onto the sides of his pillow as he booted up Skype on his computer.

"Mercedes is going to be amazed," I murmured, tugging him closer to me. The sheets wrinkled as Kurt slid towards me, and the computer screen made a whooshing noise. _Kurt Hummel is now online._

I leaned against the junction of his neck and shoulder. Kurt shuddered, peeling my arms away from his frame and stubbornly pulling the laptop over so that it sat on his lap. Laughing, I somehow managed to get him to lean flush against my torso, seated in between my legs, my arms encircling him as soon as I got the change.

"You're awfully handsy today," Kurt murmured as he busily toyed with his laptop, changing the volume settings.

"I just got back from performing in front of a national audience. I'm all weird and hormonal and I want to cuddle with my boyfriend," I explained in a voice that sounded perhaps a little bit too defensive to be innocent. Kurt let out a bark of a laugh.

"Why isn't Mercedes online?" he asked, an immediate frown settling over his features. He leaned over and grabbed his phone. "I guess I'll just have to call her, then. Damn. I was so _hoping_ to see her face when she—"

A _bloop_ from the laptop, and then, _Mercedes Jones is now online_.

I waggled my eyebrows at him conspiratorially. "Speak of the devil."

"And the devil shall arrive," Kurt finished for me, clicking the little green button right next to Mercedes' name on the Skype window.

Oh shit.

"W-wait, Kurt, what am I supposed to say?" I asked, immediately feeling awkward. What was I supposed to say, anyway? _Oh, hi, Mercedes, I'm dating your best friend now. No, I'm not going to break his heart, why are you pulling out a sharp-looking penknife from your purse?_

Kurt shrugged as the rings of the dial-tone bounced around the room. "She already figured it out. I didn't really think that you'd have to say anything."

"But she's going to threaten me!"

Kurt rolled his eyes and patted me on the cheek. "Courage, remember?"

"But—"

"I want the deets, _stat_, white boy!" Mercedes' voice erupted from the computer just as her face appeared on its screen. She squinted before lighting up immediately in recognition. "Oh. Hey, Blaine! Y'all did great. The entire glee club watched you guys and the Warblers perform."

"Thanks," I said, drawing mindless patterns on Kurt's knee with my index finger.

Kurt chuckled. "He's kind of scared for some reason, Merce."

"Huh? Why?" Mercedes bit back a giggle. "Well, actually, maybe I _do_ know why..."

"No reason," I said, smoothly as possible. Kurt lifted his hand to smooth one of my rebellious curls back in place.

"There's a reason," he murmured placidly, busying himself with fixing my thickly-gelled hair. "Blaine, why don't you tell Mercedes?"

"Tell me now, boy, or I'mma cut you!" Her voice was relatively jovial, but there was a hint of threat behind it.

"Well—" I began weakly, before catching Kurt's stare. He was watching me, unimpressed. "Um..."

Mercedes' left eyebrow went up just as her right one shot down. "Mm-hmm?"

"You see..."

Kurt's hand snapped away from my hair, accidentally pulling out one or two strands in the process. "Oh, to hell with it!" he cried, lunging towards me.

"Hey—_ow, my hair!—_mmph!"

He had been six inches away from me.

And then he was kissing me a nanosecond later.

I don't really know how it was even possible to move that fast, but when we finally broke apart (Kurt's face had turned a vivid shade of fuchsia; I was sure that I was looking just as red), Mercedes was in the middle of a spirited giggle fit, clapping her hands together and wolf whistling. "Get some, Kurt! Get it, boy!"

"He's kind of feisty," I breathed, sheepishly smoothing out the collar of my white button-down shirt. Kurt smirked challengingly at me.

_You like it, Blaine_, my subconscious assured me.

"Never mind feisty. I'm just glad you and Kurt finally got together. I mean, it definitely took y'all long enough," Mercedes was saying in between gasps for air. "This is so _quality_."

Kurt nodded, leaning back against my chest again. "Thanks. I mean, it took this guy long enough to figure it out."

"Hold up, lemme get something," Mercedes replied, holding up her right hand.

"Wha—"

"_Tina! Rachel!"_

My eyes flew open in a panic. "What?" I asked. "She's bringing in the other girls?"

"I am so sorry for this, Blaine," Kurt muttered as the short, feisty figure of Rachel Berry shot into the webcam's view.

"Hello, Blaine!" she greeted with a dazzling smile.

Tina came in just a second later, her pleasantly round face smiling up into the camera shyly. "Hey, Kurt!"

"The girls were in here for free period," Mercedes explained. "And they're definitely gonna want to see the happy couple."

Rachel pushed Mercedes out of the way. "When did it happen?"

Tina peeked her head into the corner of the frame. "_How_ did it happen?"

"It's a long story," Kurt admitted, reaching over to pluck his wide-toothed comb from the bedside table. "Can I please tell you late—"

"Aw, _hell to the no,_ white boy! Gimme deets, I want deets—!"

I tilted the laptop so that its webcam caught my face a little bit better. "You girls want the full story?" I inquired. I could already feel the buzz of my initial nervousness wearing down. Now I kind of felt like...like...

Well, like running throughout New York City, proclaiming the entire story of how Kurt and I got together.

Even though there were parts of it wherein I had acted like a total asshole.

No wonder Tom Cruise was cool with jumping on that sofa.

"Full details would be _lovely_," Rachel began pompously, "but I'd like to know—are the final scores and tabulations for your competition available yet?"

"Not yet, sorry," I replied. "They're coming in later tonight. There's a lot of show choirs competing today."

"And yesterday," Kurt added. "Also, what the _hell_ are you wearing, Rachel?"

Rachel looked down at her burgundy cardigan with white miniature birds embroidered in the fabric. "Dalton pride, of course!" She sniffed defensively, tugging the sides of the cardigan closer together.

Kurt relaxed and beamed into the camera. "That's relatively sweet of you, Rach."

Mercedes scoffed. "Please. We had _buttons_ made for y'all."

"It's true!" Tina piped up, flashing a blue-and-red plastic button into the camera. "It's got the Dalton logo on it. With a warbler on top, of course." She flipped her dark hair over her shoulder. "We figured that since New Directions didn't get to Nationals..."

"We might as well root for you guys," Mercedes said with a throaty laugh. "And I'm always there for my boys."

Rachel frowned. "We just got on a huge tangent there."

Tina's face brightened. "Oh, yeah! Tell us the big story."

I exchanged a huge smile with Kurt. "You start," he told me.

He leaned over to peck me on the cheek.

"Well," I began, drawing out the vowel sound more than necessary,"it all started with a bus ride..."

* * *

_April 20, 2011, 3:00 P.M., the Hyatt, New York City_

_ Dear Journal,_

_ Surprisingly, our performance went without a hitch. Now we just have to wait for all of the other teams to finish up their songs. And then we'll have to wait for the judges to release the scores._

_ Mercedes and the girls know about Blaine and I; I'm pretty sure that means that the entirety of New Directions will be filled in on the action soon. Because gossip in New Directions travels faster than an STD in a horde of hormonal teenagers._

—_Kurt_

* * *

"Out! Out! Out, dammit, _out!"_

Wes was sprinting down the hotel hallway, banging both of his gavels against each of the doors of the Warblers'.

"If we want to get to Carnegie in time to watch the Symphonics perform, we're going to have to hoof it!" he was shrieking, smacking his gavels every which way.

"Calm down," Kurt told him, gliding over to the door and opening it.

Wes nearly hit him in the face with the gavel in his right hand.

Kurt stood there, breathing smoothly. I could practically hear him telling himself to calm the fuck down.

Jeff emerged from one of the rooms further down the hallway, Randy tailing him. Matt came out, too, followed by David and Nick. All of them were still dressed in their pristine Dalton uniforms, just like Wes had ordered.

"I refuse to calm down. We need to scope out the competition," Wes said, lowering the volume of his voice. "Ricardo nearly ruined us all. And his brother is a member of this year's Symphonics. I have to know if they're good or not."

David quickly buttoned up his blazer. "Of course they're good. The Symphonics are national champions. They're like the East Coast's Vocal Adrenaline."

Kurt scoffed. "Please. If they're anything at all like Vocal Adrenaline, we'll wipe the floor with their sorry little toupees."

"Don't be too overconfident," Matt reasoned, feeling his rapidly deflating hair with a frown. "Kurt, let me borrow some hairspray."

Kurt's eyes shot daggers at him. "No."

Wes shoved his gavels into his armpit and clapped his hands together. "Stop fighting. Warblers—to the bus!"

"Oh, God," Kurt murmured to me testily. "He interrupted our Skype session just to watch twenty-or-so egotistical maniacs take to the stage."

"Isn't that what the Warblers are...?" Randy asked, thick brow furrowing in confusion.

Thad reached over and snatched one of the gavels away from Wes and rapped it smartly against the nearest doorframe. "Warbler Randy, that is irrelevant."

Wes waved his other gavel in the air threateningly. "Now," he hissed, eyes glinting menacingly in the light. "Get into the bus or there will—"

Matt scoffed.

"Shut it, Kominski!" someone shrilled from the back.

Wes ignored him. "There _will_ be consequences."

"It's weird seeing the stage from the audience's perspective," David told me, kicking his legs up so that they rested on the vacant seat in front of him. "Man, I didn't even know the stage was that _big_."

Wes nodded in agreement. "Comparatively dwarfs the little stage we've got back home in Westerville."

I stared at the closed velvet curtains distractedly. I wasn't exactly sure what I was getting ready to see; worst of all was that I already knew that Ricardo was related to one of the performers.

Ricardo may have lied a little bit, but he definitely wasn't a bad guy.

"Regardless," Wes said, pulling out a checkered handkerchief from his blazer sleeve and polishing off the handle of his gavel, "we will fairly acknowledge the talent of the Symphonics. It is most definitely Warbler tradition."

Randy had somehow gotten his sister, MoMo, to sit next to him. She had brought her boyfriend, a surprisingly tall twenty-something with dark stubble littering his chin and oddly kind eyes. It was clear that they both cared for each other deeply, even though her boyfriend kept on patting her in rather inappropriate areas.

"Jesus, Jon! Hands off policy!" MoMo was exclaiming through loud, breathy giggles.

Randy had quietly lifted Jon's hands off of his sister with a calculated, threatening look in his dull eyes.

"No wonder you look so depressed, man," David said, squinting over to the far right. "Where's Kurt?"

Wes' face fell. "Nothing can replace us!" he declared, slamming one of his two gavels into the arm rest. "Not even adorable countertenors with impeccable fashion sense!"

Needless to say, Kurt finally reappeared (he had gone for a quick run to the bathroom). I nudged David to move over a seat and motioned for Kurt to sit next to me. "Saved you the best seat in the house."

Nick leaned over form his seat behind me and patted me soundly on the shoulder. "Nope. For him, the best seat in the house would be on your lap."

"Shut it, Nikolaus," Kurt said acerbically, seating himself and shooing him away.

Face crumpling in feigned defeat, Nick cried, "Oh, you used my real name! In the real German! Whatever shall I do?"

Kurt and I shrugged in unison.

"Have I mentioned how glad I am that you're my boyfriend?" I asked Kurt, taking his hand in my own and squeezing gently. "It's so surreal. Sometimes I forget—"

"—because we were so close before all this happened," Kurt finished for me with a small smile. I caught a flash of the whiteness of his teeth, and I felt my heart rate speed up instantaneously.

"Not to be corny, but I'd say you were my best friend, only you're not. You're kind of a lot more important than that," I told him honestly, heartbeat going hummingbird-fast.

Kurt leaned in to whisper, "This is the wrong place to be getting sappy."

I raised my eyebrow. "Is there a place to be sappy?"

Kurt assumed a mock-offended expression and lifted his hand to his mouth, which was open in a tiny _o_ shape. "Blaine, I take personal offense to that. You're a terrible boyfriend."

"Sorry," I murmured, curling my hand around his shoulders and pressing a feather-light kiss against his hair. I grimaced at the bitter taste of his hairspray on my lips. "Geez, and you condemn me for using hair gel."

Kurt's eyes glittered mischievously. "You try making out with a dude drenched in hair-gel-sweat."

"Okay, _ew_," David broke in, swatting at Kurt's shoulder. "That's gross. Just stop it."

"I agree," Matt said, leaning against the back of his seat.

My face fell. "Hair-gel-sweat...?"

Kurt nodded slowly. "You heard me."

Matt snorted. "You guys suck," he deadpanned.

"I concur," Wes interjected. "Now shut up. They're about to go on."

"Who are? Them Symphonics?" MoMo asked from two rows in front of us. She had stood up and was leaning over her chair, cleavage spilling out rather dangerously from her tube top. Her boyfriend Jon watched from his seat, apparently amused. "Don't worry about them, sweetie. Y'all did wonderfully."

"Yes, the Symphonics," Wes said exasperatedly. "Does no one even _care_ about them?"

"Not really," Nick admitted dubiously.

Wes sighed loudly. "Raise your hand if you care. I mean..." He cleared his throat. "Warblers, all in favor for caring about watching the Symphonics perform?"

Only Jeff's crumb-covered hand shot up.

Wes smirked. "Thank you. At least some of us have some dignity."

Jeff coughed quietly. "Actually, I just like watching other people sing. I don't really care about the competition."

"Shh, the lights are dimming!" Kurt commanded, raising his soft voice so that it could be heard over the talking of the audience members.

"Yay!" Wes half-squealed. "I mean...let's be good sports about this, eh, Warblers?"

Matt shrugged disinterestedly and rested his elbow on Nick's shoulder. Nick frowned and pushed it away.

"_And now, hailing from Brackville, New Hampshire, the Brackville Boys' College Preparatory Symphonics! A tradition of excellence started in 1955 by the school's first principal, Harold Navarro, the Symphonics have risen against the odds and are national champions as well as this year's show choir competition favorites. This season the Symphonics are lead by senior Tobias Gomez and senior Gabriel O'Neal."_

"Tobias Gomez? Ricardo's little brother?" Kurt asked.

Wes nodded wordlessly.

"_And without further ado...ladies and gentlemen, the Symphonics!"_

The curtains were pulled open to reveal a stately, well-built Hispanic boy perched on a black three-legged stool at the center of the stage, a dim spotlight shining down upon him.

"That's him. That's Tobias Gomez," Wes said assuredly.

"He looks just like Ricardo," David remarked.

A steady beat thrummed through the concert hall as more Symphonics poured in through both sides of the stage, all clad in the same kind of uniform: black slacks, tailored, gray blazers, and a solid print tie with the Brackville logo embroidered onto it.

"I approve of their uniform," Kurt admitted reluctantly.

My jaw dropped as I watched them all dance to the pounding music; each and every single of of them moved in complete harmony. They weren't soulless at all, though. Not like Vocal Adrenaline.

Because they all had that drive and love for dance that just shined through all of their movements.

It was freaking _unfair._

"And this is where it all goes downhill," Kurt muttered, eyes widening to the size of dinner plates.

"_I know you want me _

_I made it obvious that I want you too _

_So put it on me _

_Let's remove the space between me and you _

_Now rock your body _

_Damn, I like the way that you move _

_So give it to me _

_'Cause I already know _

_What you wanna do _

_And here's the situation _

_Been to every nation _

_Nobody's ever made me feel the way that you do _

_You know my motivation _

_Given my reputation _

_Please excuse me I don't mean to be rude..."_

And Tobias could really sing, too.

Wes looked like he could have been knocked over with a flick of the fingertips.

"_But tonight I'm loving you _

_Ohh you know _

_That tonight I'm loving you _

_Ohh you know _

_That tonight I'm loving you _

_Ohh you know _

_That tonight I'm loving you _

_Ohh you know _

_That tonight I'm loving you..._"

And at that point, Wes promptly stood up.

"Warblers!" he hissed. "_Warblers_!"

All of us turned to face him simultaneously, with similar looks of disdain on our faces.

"What the hell, Wesley?" Thad demanded, careful to keep his voice low enough so that no one would be able to perceive our bickering.

"We're leaving. Now," Wes said abruptly, scooping up his two gavels and dragging David down the aisleway. "Warblers. Now!"

We sat there, eyes practically popping out of our heads in shock. No one reacted until another boy took the lead in order to perform the rap section of the song.

It was Matt who spoke first. "This song is regrettably sexual in nature."

"_Tonight I'm gonna do _

_Everything that I want with you _

_Everything that you need _

_Everything that you want _

_I wanna honey _

_I wanna stunt with you _

_From the window to the wall _

_Gotta give you my all _

_Winter and the summertime _

_When I get you on the springs _

_I'mma make you fall..." _

Their rapper was amazing, too.

I sighed loudly and stood up from my seat, untangling my hand from Kurt's. "I'll go."

"Blaine?"

"I'm going with Wes and David. Come on, guys. We've no business here," I said, standing up in my seat and following Wes out the door.

It wasn't a surprise that everyone followed.

* * *

Ricardo was waiting for Kurt and I outside of Carnegie Hall, two steaming coffees in each of his hands. He had changed out of that hideous coral confection he had been wearing earlier and into a Brackville t-shirt. And he had a particularly repentant look on his face.

"A medium drop and a nonfat mocha for you two," he said with a rueful little grimace.

Stunned, Kurt took the coffee. I followed suit.

The Warblers had stopped in front of the bus, staring at Ricardo, Kurt, and I. I could practically feel their death glances shooting into Ricardo's body; quite frankly, the feeling was extremely uncomfortable. I couldn't help but feel sorry for the poor guy.

It was a shock when MoMo descended from the bus steps to yell, "Could y'all please leave Kurt and Blaine alone? Jesus Christ, you never know a private moment from a public one! C'mon, Jon." She yanked Jon back into the bus, and the rest of the Warblers filed in soon after, Nick first and Jeff last.

"So," Ricardo said, once everyone was safely inside the bus. "You Warblers performed well, man. The Symphonics are in for some tough competition."

Kurt looked up at Ricardo through his eyelashes. I took a moment to appreciate the blueness of his eyes.

"No, they aren't," Kurt said honestly. "We were nothing compared to some of the other teams there. We'll likely scrape up a fifteenth place or something like that."

Ricardo shrugged, unwrapping a piece of gum from the foil and sticking it into his mouth. Chewing thoughtfully, he replied, "It's still pretty good for your first time competing in Nationals in several years. Especially out of all of those teams in the competition, you know."

I sipped at my coffee silently.

"Tobias and the boys worked so hard this year. They never needed my help to cheat or anything."

"But they did," Kurt pointed out gently. "And what they did was relatively harmless, but it really did mess up the Warblers for a while there."

"Wes was distraught for days," I added, lacing my fingers through Kurt's and plunging our intertwined hands into the pocket of my blazer. The added warmth was extremely comforting.

"Jesus," Ricardo breathed, leaning against the side of the building. "I really screwed up, didn't I? And if Wes ever files a complaint, I'm totally screwed."

Kurt cocked his head to the side. "What do you mean?"

"I'll get fired for stealing the possessions of the Hyatt's customers," Ricardo explained tiredly.

"Wes won't do it," I said quickly.

"I'm just...I'm just really sorry, man," Ricardo said sorrowfully. "And I was just watching Tobias' performance—a performance that I've seen countless times, they rehearse that fucking number like a billion times—and I just felt terrible. And I ran out for coffees and met you guys out here just in time."

"And now the bus is waiting on us," Kurt said tartly.

Ricardo rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. "Right. I'm sorry about that, too."

"It's alright," I amended, shooting a warning look at Kurt. "You know what, I forgive you. It was a mistake. We've all made them."

"I don't want to talk to Wes about this," Ricardo whispered brokenly. "That'll be too awkward."

"Maybe it will be...now. Things are still fresh in his mind," Kurt said. "But you can apologize later once he gets over how talented the Symphonics are."

"But I speak for Kurt and I when I say that you're forgiven," I said firmly. "Now go inside and finish watching your brother sing. He's doing great—tell him that the Warblers are deeply impressed."

Ricardo nodded slowly and retreated back into the lobby of Carnegie.

"So back to the bus to wait another hour until tabulations?" I asked Kurt. "I don't think it's going to move. There's not enough time to go back to the hotel and back, so the rest of the guys are probably just sitting around singing Mariah Carey songs together."

Kurt looked at me derisively.

"Okay, maybe only Wes is singing the Mariah Carey."

Kurt circled around me, a playful look appearing on his face. "Come for a walk with me," he said. "Please, Blaine?"

I pretended to think that one over. "Well..."

"Come on, then," Kurt said. "Let's talk."

* * *

_April 20, 2011, 4:30 P.M. Carnegie Hall._

_ Dear Journal,_

_ Kurt + Blaine_

_ Blaine + Kurt_

_ Kurt Elizabeth Hummel-Anderson_

_ Blaine Rafael Hummel-Anderson_

_ Kurt Anderson_

_ Blaine Hummel_

_ Kurt Eliza_

**Blaine again. Hi, Kurt**

_I need to stop writing lame journal entries with Blaine sitting next to me._

—_Kurt_

* * *

"What are you thankful for?" Kurt asked me, swinging our hands to and fro to the beat of our footsteps.

"What do you mean?"

"What are the things that you think you don't deserve, but have anyway?"

I stopped in my walk to think about that.

"Dalton. I definitely never deserved Dalton. Never deserved to run away, like a coward," I told him.

Kurt frowned. "You weren't running away."

I laughed harshly at that. "Kind of, I guess. I suppose there wasn't a choice for me."

"Anything else that you're thankful for?" Kurt questioned persistently, his long eyelashes framing his perfectly blue eyes. It was more than a little distracting.

"My mother. She's a cold woman with a warm heart. It's weird, but she's always been looking out for me," I said, smiling fondly at the memories I had made with my mother Evangeline. "She's beautiful and hardworking and bitchy. But she's amazing and I love her."

"Anything else?" Kurt pressed on.

"Now you're just fishing for compliments, Mr. Hummel," I accused teasingly. "I suppose I'm thankful for _you_, then. Even if you do diss my hair gel on a regular basis."

"It's what I'm here for," Kurt said defensively. "And I'm thankful for you, too. You pulled me out of my slump."

"Slump? What slump? The fabulous Kurt Hummel in a _slump_?"

"Shush you."

He bent down to peck me on the cheek, though, anyway.

"What else are you thankful for, then, Kurt?" I inquired.

"My newly-patched up family. It's nothing like my old one, but it works. Carole and Finn are amazing. And my dad—well, you know my dad. I love him because he accepts who I am. Which I guess can be difficult," Kurt said with a tragic little smile on his face.

"What do you mean?" I led him to a bench on the edge of the sidewalk and motioned for him to sit down. "What's so hard about you being accepted as who you are?"

Kurt laughed darkly. "If you haven't noticed, I'm gay, Blaine. That's who I am. And it was a shocker for Dad." He paused. "Well, not really a shocker. He told me he's known since I was three or something crazy like that."

I thought otherwise. "No, you aren't. That's not who you are."

"What?" Kurt demanded sharply.

I pulled him in closer. People walked by us without even giving us a second glance—they thought it was normal. And why shouldn't it be?

"You know who you are? You're Kurt Hummel. You're beautiful and talented and witty. You've memorized every single Vogue cover in the history of Vogue covers. You know how to play every single Madonna song on the piano. You can hit notes that are higher than some girls can ever dream. You're..."

Kurt took in a small inhalation of breath. "I'm...?"

"You're Kurt Hummel, my boyfriend of four days that I hope will turn into years and years. You're not perfect. And people who say that they won't associate with you for who you are...they're _nothing_, Kurt."

"I..." Kurt began weakly. "Thank you, Blaine."

When I leaned in to kiss him, I tasted coffee.

"Have I mentioned that I love you today?" Kurt asked.

I shook my head no.

"Well, I do," he said, biting back a grin.

I nodded wordlessly and then shot pin-straight in my seat. "Kurt?"

"Hm?" Kurt perked his head in my direction.

"Have I mentioned that I love you at all?"

Kurt jutted out his lower lip as her turned that question over in his head. "No. No, I don't believe you have..." His voice sounded vaguely hopeful, vaguely expectant. Nothing else could be expected, really. It was Kurt that I was dealing with—he was always five steps ahead of everyone else.

"No, I don't believe you have," Kurt hedged, cautiously gauging my expression.

I paused, reveling in the faint sounds of the people strolling through the sidewalk. Hearing the car honks and the cries of the drivers in the asphalt lanes.

"No big deal or anything, but I think I kind of do," I told him with a peaceful smile on my face.

"That's cheesy," Kurt said flatly.

"You love me for being cheesy."

"Get off of your soapbox, Anderson."

"I only stand upon it so that I can be taller, Hummel."

Kurt knitted his brows together sarcastically. "Alright, that's it. You've lost it."

I could tell that Kurt at least partly enjoyed it, though. Because he spent the entire walk back to the bus grinning widely. "Love you too, Kurt," I said, poking him on the shoulder.

* * *

David was leaning up against one of the random seats on the bus playing on his PSP when Kurt and I arrived.

"Hey, man. Word on the street is that we cleared the first round of judging," he said, looking up from his video game. "I mean, we made the top thirty. If that makes you feel any better."

I turned to Wes. "Is this legit?"

Wes nodded his head enthusiastically, holding up his Blackberry triumphantly. "Some members of that one all-girls school from Arizona snuck into the judging room and stole a sheet with the top thirty teams that competed today."

"Really?" Kurt asked, his bored face immediately transforming into an excited one. "We really got that far?"

Randy fingered the rosary beads that were twined around his wrist. "Don't get too cocky—for all we know, we might have placed thirtieth."

Nick frowned. "That would suck immensely."

Wes sauntered up to the front of the bus, checking his watch. "Regardless, we've got five minutes till the results are actually released."

"Lame," Matt said, emotionless. "The suspense is just killing me."

"You're killing me no-ooow," Kurt sang under his breath.

"Come on, guys," Thad commanded. "Let's get back into Carnegie."

There was a brief period of calamity as the Warblers tumbled back out of the bus.

"I swear to God," Kurt was grumbling as he leaned over to pick a bit of dirt off of his shoe, "we've been in and out of Carnegie so many times that I fear we'll get arrested or something."

Nick scoffed. "Arrest who? Arrest _you_? They wouldn't arrest you, Kurt, you look like a little doll."

"No," Kurt corrected, "they wouldn't arrest me because I would kick their asses."

That's my boy.

* * *

**A/N****: ARE YOU PUMPED AND EXCITED FOR THE FINAL SCORES FOR THE NATIONALS COMPETITION? I KNOW I AM! Thoughts?**

**Oh, and they totally said the "l" word, nbd or anything.**

**Oh, and don't forget to review, etc. :)**

**follow me/ask me questions on Tumblr:**

**paundromat . tumblr . com**


	13. Big City

**READ ME: This is the final chapter of "Bright Lights". Thank you to everyone who's stuck with me on my first venture into writing Glee fanfiction—it's time for me to move onto other Glee projects, most notably "Bleeding Love", my first alternate universe attempt. Forgive me for this chapter taking such a long time.**

**Don't forget to review, story alert, and favorite!**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Glee.**

* * *

**WELCOME TO THE BRIGHT LIGHTS CH. 13: "BIG CITY"**

"Would it be overly pessimistic if I said that I'm nervous as hell right now?" Matt asked, adjusting his tie as he sauntered through the lobby of Carnegie Hall.

"No," I replied, shoving a clammy hand into my trouser pocket. Kurt and Randy were trotting after me, I was trailing after Matt, and Matt was following Wes and David. Wes had the handle of his gavel at his lips so that he could gnaw at the handle and he was murmuring something in Chinese that Matt was solemnly nodding his head to. "I'm actually..."

"Shocked?" Kurt supplied, striding forward to loop his arm through mine. "I'm definitely shocked. Matt, you're usually emotionless."

Matt stopped in his tracks and bit his lip. "I guess so. But I don't know."

There was a cacophony of sounds trailing from inside the theatre and into the lobby, and Wes all but ripped the swinging doors open. David was right at his heels, wearing a somber expression as he stopped to hold the door open for the rest of the Warblers. When Kurt and I finally pushed past Nick and Jeff, Wes was already at the other end of the room, where an overhead projector was beaming out a list of the top fifteen show choirs in the nation.

"This is ludicrous," Kurt complained, rubbing circles into my palm with the pad of his thumb. "Wes' reactions to everything makes us look so unprofessional and overeager."

I paused and looked at him. "Kurt," I said, amazed at his generally uncharacteristic nonchalance. "I'm shocked. You're not fazed at all by this."

Kurt heaved a great sigh. "Look, Blaine," he replied, sidestepping into one of the empty seats that filled the theatre, "I'm not going to lie. The Symphonics were amazing; there are so many other show choirs this year who are obviously better than us—"

I opened my mouth to disprove his statement, but he held a finger to my mouth and shot me a discerning look.

"Frankly, Dalton doesn't provide us with the resources to be a great show choir," he said finally.

Jeff and Nick scooted into the seats next to ours.

"Waiting for the grand _totale_, amigos?" Nick asked, slapping his hand against Kurt's knee, who immediately drew it away with a scandalized look on his face.

"You aren't?" I returned dubiously, exchanging a brow raise with Jeff. Jeff merely shrugged, pulled out a bag of baked pita chips, and popped open the lid to a pocket-sized plastic Tupperware set filled with creamy hummus.

Jeff scooped up a chipful of hummus and popped it into his mouth. "We'll just be waiting for what Wes has to say. We're kind of burned out at this point, honestly."

Nick leaned over and stuck his finger into some of Jeff's hummus. Bringing his finger to his mouth, he added, "Anyway. Kurt, what were you saying about Dalton's show choir resources?"

Kurt jerked a little bit in his seat (he had obviously zoned out of the conversation). "We lack the glitzy camp seen in most of the costumes of other show choirs is all," he explained.

"But the Symphonics wear their uniforms all the time, too," I said, pointing to one of the Brackville members who was milling about the almost empty theatre.

"Blaine, they sang an Enrique Iglesias song about sex. And sex _always sells_," Kurt said, as if it should be obvious. Jeff blanched an unnaturally white color and Nick stifled a guffaw with his Dalton tie. "I mean, just look at New Directions. They have Rachel Berry, a girl with the sex appeal of a donut, singing lead all the time. Now, Rachel Berry's voice may be fantastic, but it's overshadowed by the fact that she can't even get my dimwitted brother to fall for her.

"And then look at us. We're stuck in ill-fitting blazers. We're singing sappy P!nk ballads and our lead soloist this year is a virginal homosexual with a voice as high as a girl's. We lack finish; we lack packaging."

"More like we lack _packages_," Nick snorted unceremoniously.

"I think you're plenty appealing, Kurt," Jeff said through a mouthful of pita chips and hummus. "I'm mean, yeah, you're a virginal homosexual, but they really don't have to know that."

Kurt gave Jeff an uncomfortable smile. "Gee, thanks, Jeffrey. I feel so much better now."

Frowning, I reached over and clasped Kurt's shoulder tightly. "Don't worry, Kurt. At the end of the day you're always going to be my number one."

Nick stuck a finger down his throat and pantomimed a vicious gagging motion; Jeff rolled his eyes and dug around the bag of chips. The crinkling noise seemed to make Kurt's nose crinkle in distaste.

"Regardless," Kurt said, pressing his palm flat against my shoulder, "I want to know who won. So let's go."

* * *

_April 20, 2011, 5:30 P.M. Carnegie Hall._

_ Dear Journal,_

_ This is it. The results are too far to see from where Blaine, Nick, Jeff, and I are sitting, but we're about to move in a little bit closer to the stage. Everyone's congregated around there. It's like a sample sale at Michael Kors, only without the half-price knit sweaters with the gorgeous giant gold buttons on them._

_ Frankly, I feel like I could sleep for days. All of that adrenaline just barreled through my system and now I feel flat as a pancake. _

_ Well, more like a crepe. Pancakes are much too crude._

_ I'd be a raspberry-mascarpone cheese crepe with powdered sugar on the top. And Blaine would be a savory crepe with prosciutto and really good cheese and eggs..._

_ He'd be delicious._

—_Kurt_

* * *

There wasn't really a feeling quite like defeat, I thought, feeling Kurt's arm twine around my waist along with a cold feeling of irrational dread as I surveyed the scoreboard.

_The Dalton Academy Warblers_ were not listed as one of the top ten show choirs in the nation. At least, that was what it looked like on the large screen projector dangling from the top of the stage, swaying slightly with the flow of the air conditioner.

"If it makes you feel any better," Wes murmured, nibbling on the end of his gavel timidly, "The Symphonics didn't make the top ten, either." David scowled and slapped Wes' hand so hard the the gavel fell from his grasp and rolled onto the carpeted floor. Matt's movements were almost robotic as he knelt down to pick it up, so stiff that Kurt eventually let out a deep sigh and picked the gavel up for him in one fluid motion.

Nick's eyes were wide with disbelief. "Brackville didn't make top ten?"

I ran my eyes over the screen projector multiple times—there were several glee clubs from California on the list, and one from New York; another one from Lincoln, Nebraska, which I thought was a little bit random. But Wes was correct in saying that neither the Warblers nor the Symphonics had placed at Nationals.

"We didn't make the top ten," a voice said from behind us. "At least, Tobias and the rest of the Symphonics didn't."

Ricardo.

"Why?" Kurt asked bitterly, pulling himself away from me and striding up to Ricardo with a hard look on his face. "You certainly pulled all of the right strings to get there. And apparently there's a lot more to show choir than talent."

"That's enough, Kurt," I murmured, more to myself than anything. If I had been just a smidge more aggressive, I would have taken Ricardo out with my fist, the way things had worked out with Jeff a few days ago. If I was anything like Rachel Berry I would have challenged him to a sing-off or something. But I wasn't, and Ricardo was generally a _good_ guy. There was once a time when I had almost ruined everything for the sake of getting something that I wanted.

I had found out later that I could have gotten it all along if I hadn't tried so hard. And look—there I was, flanked by the best friends a guy could ask for, arguably the best show choir in Ohio, with a gorgeous, _gay_ boyfriend to boot. The experience, I decided right then and there, would always outweigh the sting of not making top ten. At least we got into the top thirty. At least Kurt had gotten to sing his first real solo in front of a huge crowd.

Ricardo coughed awkwardly into his clenched fist. "The Symphonics got, uh, eliminated for cheating." His voice was full of suggestion; when the rest of the Warblers continued to stare at him blankly, he frowned and continued with, "Oh, hell. Let's just say that the older brother of one of the lead singers felt the need to report Brackville for cheating."

"You—you did—I'm sorry, _what_?" Wes demanded.

Thad looked even more appalled. "_Why_ would you do that? You guys didn't even cheat, you took a goddamn _gavel_, for Chris'sakes—"

"You watch your tone," Wes said, his tone dark and dangerous.

Ricardo extended a hand in Wes' general direction. "I know that things between Dalton and Brackville are never really gonna work out. But let me just, you know. Extend the olive branch a little bit."

"Go on, Wes," I said encouragingly.

Wes reluctantly took Ricardo's hand in his and shook a little too tightly.

But the motion of repentance was still present.

"Anyway," Ricardo said finally, "I gotta go run to the panel to look at the judge's comments on our performance."

And he was gone.

Kurt looked curious, cocking his head to the side with a quizzical expression on his face. "The judges release _comments_?"

"They do," David said sagely. "I actually have 'em right here, man." He held up a creamy white envelope held shut by a golden sticker.

Jeff crossed his arms dubiously. "You haven't looked at them yet?"

"Couldn't bring myself to do it without you guys," David explained.

"I don't want to see it," Kurt said stubbornly.

"Well, if you insist," I said in a singsong voice. "But I think that we can all assume that they loved us."

* * *

The events following the competition day passed in a blur. I honestly wouldn't be able to tell you what happened. All I remember is Kurt and I heading back to the Hyatt with the rest of the Warblers, bone tired, and collapsing onto a bed—both of us in one bed, since maintenance had separated the two double beds when they had cleaned—wrapping my arms around Kurt, feeling the last pains of loss ebb away until I genuinely didn't care.

There was packing, there were goodbyes to MoMo. As a final swan song, the Warblers left several of their striped red-and-navy ties all over the Hyatt. Future guests would arrive only to find a Dalton tie wrapped up in a cloth napkin or stuffed into the ceramic cotton swab holder.

There was makeout after makeout session with Kurt. And honestly, it got a little bit ridiculous after a while, since Kurt seemed to be relinquishing his feelings of defeat by sucking face with his boyfriend. Did I object? Never. But there were times when the kissing made me feel a little bit too empty for my liking—was Kurt, at this point, kissing me because he wanted to, or because his loss depressed him?

"I just," Kurt muttered, running his hands along the sides of my stomach and enthusiastically nuzzling his head into my neck, "I just really wanted to win, Blaine."

We were lying in a questionable position atop Kurt's bed on the morning of our leaving New York.

I felt frozen in my position, like a snowman whose body heat was slowly but surely being melted by Kurt and his Elie Tahari cardigan. I just smiled into Kurt's hair and told him, "Doesn't matter. I think you did just fine."

"I didn't," Kurt insisted, moving on to my face now that he was done rubbing up against my neck, "It was my fault, the judges probably thought I was a girl or something—"

"Kurt," I said sharply, pulling him off of my face, "Stop that."

Kurt's face fell. "Look, I'm sorry, I forgot you had boundaries—"

I scooted into a sitting position at the foot of the bed and massaged my temples. "It's not that."

"Then what is it?" Kurt asked, smoothing his disheveled hair into something more recognizably _Kurt_-ish.

"You just," I said.

"I just," Kurt repeated blankly.

"You need to stop pretending that you have it all together," I said to my shoes. "It's okay to lose faith sometimes. Because I don't see any need for you to pretend."

Kurt's face lit up with a small smile. "You mean—?"

"You're fantastic, Kurt. So stop...stop blaming everything on yourself. Or something. I don't know. For all we know, we didn't place because Randy didn't shuffle in the right direction. Maybe our alignment was off, I don't know." I paused. "Maybe they had a problem with the goober in the front with the gelled hair."

Kurt came up to rest against my back. "You know what? I'm sure that it was the goober in the front with the stupid hair."

"We're coming back here," I said, turning around so that Kurt could resume his enthusiastic cuddling.

To my surprise, he didn't take the bait. I frowned and instead decided to pull him in so I could plant a small kiss to his forehead.

"To New York?" Kurt murmured.

"Someday."

* * *

_April 21, 2011, 5:30 P.M. Dalton Academy._

_ Dear Journal,_

_ The magic's over. New York is gone._

_ But we're going back there, Blaine and I. Someday._

_ Someday, when he's a ridiculously talented attorney or something, and I'm designing killer dresses for H&M. We'll live there. We'll go back._

—_Kurt_

* * *

**JUDGE'S TABULATIONS: THE DALTON ACADEMY WARBLERS**

_1st Judge: Maureen Sawyers_

_High in emotion, low in energy. Alignment crooked. Strange assortment of songs. Did not feel unified. Poor movement around the stage._

_20th place._

_2nd Judge: Donald Lawrence_

_Odd pairing of countertenor and baritenor. Chemistry. Great performance, but perhaps too sentimental. Not enough dancing._

_15th place._

_3rd Judge: Florence McAvoy_

_Not flashy, but simple and sweet. Nice vocals, maybe a little bit weak. Song selection was strange._

_16th place._

**OVERALL 17th PLACE.**

_does not merit an advance to 2011 Show Choir Showcase._

**ADDENDUM:**

_The Dalton Academy Warblers have now been moved to __**16th PLACE**__with the disqualification of the Brackville Boys' Choir. —Maureen Sawyer, April 20, Carnegie Hall._

* * *

"Warblers," Kurt said as we filed in for our post-competition meeting. "I have an announcement to make."

Jeff and Nick looked up from where they were sitting on the leather chaise; Wes, Thad, and David sat up in their seats at the front of the senior commons.

"Yes, Warbler Kurt?" David asked.

Wes scowled and pounded his gavel against the table. "Warbler Kurt, you now have the floor."

"This semester and a half has been...nothing short of fantastic," he said, exchanging a look with me. "I've made so many new friends, shared so many experiences. I got a boyfriend, a solo. Got to visit New York."

"But...?" Randy asked, looking up from his pocket Bible.

I stood up and crossed the room so that I was standing by Kurt, ignoring the surprised gasps. Warblers weren't supposed to call attention to themselves during meetings without the permission from the Council. "We think that it's time for him to return to McKinley."

"What?" Jeff demanded.

"Well, think about it," Kurt said defensively. "Most of you are seniors, you're going to be gone next year. It's time for me to face my demons next school year."

"Plus, we figure that a lot of the problems at his old school have died down," I added.

David shot a quizzical look at me. "Wait, Blaine. You're fine with all of this?"

"I'm supportive of whatever Kurt wants to do, yes. I mean, within reason, of course," I replied. Kurt beamed at me with that smile of his that never showed teeth.

"But I've prepared a song for all of you," Kurt said, "As a goodbye, I suppose. To all of the Warblers I'll be leaving—" He looked at Thomas and his gaggle of freshmen. "—to all of the Warblers that are leaving me." He glanced at Jeff, who was at that point looking about ready to pee himself.

I turned to him. "A song? Really?"

"Well, yes," Kurt said defensively. "I'm definitely not going to go down without a fight." He strode over the the boombox and popped in a tiny cassette. "Now, I know you're all expecting me to pull another _Don't Cry For Me Argentina_, but I decided to go with something a bit more contemporary. Blaine, hit play for me?"

I dutifully walked over to the boombox and pressed play; Nick snickered at me and whispered _"Whipped,"_ under his breath.

"Stop it," Kurt said sharply, and he composed himself just in time for his cue.

_Little boy, six years old _

_A little too used to being alone. _

_Another new mom and dad, another school, _

_Another house that'll never be home_

_When people ask him how he likes this place... _

_He looks up and says, with a smile upon his face, _

_This is my temporary home _

_It's not where I belong. _

_Windows and rooms that I'm passing through_

_This is just a stop on the way to where I'm going_

_I'm not afraid because I know this is my _

_temporary home._

"You just—and—_wow_," I mumbled to myself as Kurt smiled again and looked me straight in the eye.

And I paused and let the lyrics wash over me.

_This is my temporary Home _

_It's not where I belong. _

_Windows and rooms that I'm passing through_

_This was just a stop, on the way to where I'm going_

_I'm not afraid because I know... this was _

_my temporary home. _

_This is our temporary home._

* * *

I danced with him at the McKinley High prom. He wore an improbably ridiculous kilt number, I went for a sleekly fitted suit that made me look perhaps a little bit more tall than usual. Somehow Kurt had coerced me into dancing along to ABBA's _Dancing Queen_ with gusto, and Mercedes, all wrapped up in the highlighter blond Sam Evans, shot knowing glances at me the entire evening.

We left before the prom queen and king could be announced, bored out of our wits and ready to do something else. Kurt decided that he needed frozen yogurt to cool himself off (the dance floor had been sweltering) and drove us to the nearest Yogurt Island for his favorite, cake batter with Cinnamon Toast Crunch, a combination that I quite frankly found disgusting but he found absolutely delicious.

"I love you," he told me after I finished off the last gummy bear in my yogurt.

"Love you too," I replied, voice full of conviction.

I honestly think he had made plans on ravishing me in his car in some sort of after-prom deflowering ceremony, but for some reason, he refrained.

Not that I didn't want it, too.

Which was why I may or may not have slipped one or two condoms into my wallet. When Kurt thumbed through it in order to find a ten dollar bill to pay the frozen yogurt lady with, he found them and instantly began to laugh so hard that they skittered to the floor in all of their aluminum-foiled glory.

"Stop that," I said, sliding the condoms back into my wallet. "Those were just precautionary—"

"Precautionary my ass, Blaine," Kurt responded easily, pulling me through the parking lot and kissing me quiet. "I appreciate the gesture, though."

I was going to retort back with something equally as embarrassing, but I decided against it.

"Come home with me," I said instead.

* * *

Nothing sexual happened at the Anderson household.

After taking off his jacket and hanging it against one of the chairs, Kurt noticed the pile of letters sitting on the counter and picked it up.

"What are these?" he asked, gently handing them over to me. I sighed and led him to the couch.

I told him, "College acceptance letters."

"We're looking at your college acceptance letters on prom night?" Kurt asked. "How nice. I went into this entire affair expecting some sexually charged act by now—"

I pouted. "You look very sexy tonight, Kurt, I promise, but we aren't doing that."

Kurt let out a sigh of relief. "Good. I'm not ready for that."

"But you—!"

"College acceptance letter opening time!" Kurt squealed, reaching for the one at the top and tearing it open unceremoniously.

"I refuse to go anywhere too far from you," I said without preamble.

"Correction," Kurt said, holding up his index finger. "I refuse to let you go anywhere that's too far for me to follow you to."

He pressed a teasing kiss to my nose and scanned the opened letter. "This is for the University of Connecticut, Blaine."

"Did I make the cut?"

"Well, yes, but that's where Jeff's going, and I refuse to let you go to the same college as him. You'll end up killing each other, and don't you dare give me that look, you know you would."

He sidled up closer to me as I reached for the next one, a letter from Georgetown.

"Washington, DC. The capital of the free world," Kurt said approvingly.

I opened the letter (my finger ripped the envelope open in a jagged line) and read the first few lines. "Not accepted," I said after a few moments of silence.

"Aw," Kurt said.

"I wasn't really looking that far into Georgetown. It's just my dad's alma mater, so..."

Kurt looked at me. "So indeed."

"Will you be able to live without a boyfriend going to Georgetown?" I asked him playfully. "I'm sure they'd let me in if you had a talk with the dean or something."

"Shh," Kurt said, and I managed to squeeze myself so close that I feared I'd crease his kilt. "I'm sure that I'll still love you, even if you go to the crappiest college in the world."

"Sounds like a great plan," I told him enthusiastically. "Maybe I could become a house-husband and you could become the family breadmaker."

"I'm going to be spending my salary on fabulous clothing items. You're going to be spending your money and our house bills."

"Does this mean that you're agreeing to a marriage with me?" I asked.

Silence.

Kurt kissed me square on the mouth. "Does your question mean that you'd ever doubted that theory?" He grinned. "I love you, Blaine Warbler."

"I love you, Kurt New Direction," I returned emphatically. "So much."

We sat there and looked at each other for what seemed to be an eternity before Kurt hopped up to grab the last letter.

"It's either this one or Ohio State," he warned me. "If you go to OSU, you'll never be rid of me."

I shrugged. "Is that a threat or a promise?"

The envelope was a stark white with a powder blue crown on the top corner.

"This university?" Kurt inquired quizzically.

"It's been my top choice for ages," I explained. "I love the campus, love the people."

Kurt opened the letter slowly. "I, for one, am in love with the city." He stopped. "And you. I've always been in love with you."

"Not always," I said.

"Since the staircase, then," Kurt amended, pressing the opened envelope into my hands. "I want you to read it."

And I did.

* * *

**CODA**

"You've decided on a college, then?" my mother asked as she chopped up onions for her soup. "It better be someplace good."

My father frowned. "It's would be _nice _if you went to a good college after all of that money we invested in Dalton—"

"Hopefully not someplace too far, dear, we'd miss you too much. Kurt would miss you, too."

"Kurt," my father muttered gruffly, swirling around his red wine at the stem of the glass with his right hand and holding out his left.

"My boyfriend has nothing to do with my choice of higher education, father," I assured him, pressing the acceptance letter into his open palm.

"Columbia University?" he asked after a few seconds of rushed reading. "As in, _Columbia_ Columbia University?"

My mother beamed. "Sweetie, I'm so proud of you!"

"I thought you might be," I said.

There was a strange feeling of nostalgia I received while packing up my things three months later. I think that Kurt, rubbing soothing circles into my back as we laid on my bed the night before my flight, had summed it up the most succinctly.

"Well," he had said, pressing feather-light kisses to the back of my neck, "Back to New York."

**End.**

* * *

**A/N: That's it, folks. Thanks for reading!**

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